Life was a series of greetings and farewells, one was always saying good-bye to something, to someone.

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.

I suppose sooner or later in the life of everyone comes a moment of trial. We all of us have our particular devil who rides us and torments us, and we must give battle in the end.

People who mattered could not take the humdrum world. But this was not the world, it was enchantment; and all of it was mine.

If there’s one thing that makes a man sick, it’s to have his ale poured out of an ugly hand.

So you see, when war comes to one’s village, one’s doorstep, it isn’t tragic and impersonal any longer. It is just an excuse to vomit private hatred. That is why I am not a great patriot.

People who travel are always fugitives.