If Montaigne is a man in the prime of life sitting in his study on a warm morning and putting down the sum of his experience in his rich, sinewy prose, then Pascal is that same man lying awake in the small hours of the night when death seems very close and every thought is heightened by the apprehension that it may be his last.

Beneath a mask of selfish tranquility nothing exists except bitterness and boredom. I am one of those whom suffering has made empty and frivolous: each night in my dreams I pull the scab off a wound; each day, vacuous and habit-ridden, I help it re-form.

When young we are faithful to individuals, when older we grow loyal to situations and to types.

As repressed sadists are supposed to become policemen or butchers so those with an irrational fear of life become publishers.

Greed, like the love of comfort, is a kind of fear.

There is no more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hall.

We love but once, for once only are we perfectly equipped for loving.