The English language is like a broad river on whose bank a few patient anglers are sitting, while, higher up, the stream is being polluted by a string of refuse-barges tipping out their muck.

Green leaves on a dead tree is our epitaph-green leaves, dear reader, on a dead tree.

Like water, we are truest to our nature in repose.

No one can achieve Serenity until the glare of passion is past the meridian.

Promise is the capacity for letting people down.

Words today are like the shells and rope of seaweed which a child brings home glistening from the beach and which in an hour have lost their luster.

Boys do not grow up gradually. They move forward in spurts like the hands of clocks in railway stations.