One cannot pass by without thinking of the density of men in the ground.

Truth is singular. Its 'versions' are mistruths.

Writing is probably one-fifth coming up with the stuff, and four-fifths self-editing again and again and again.

Mother used to say escape is never further than the nearest book. Well, Mumsy, no, not really. Your beloved large-print sagas of rags, riches, and heartbreak were no camouflage against the miseries trained on you by the tennis ball launcher of life, were they? But, yes, Mum, there again, you have a point. Books don’t offer real escape, but they can stop a mind scratching itself raw.

I recently bought a cat, but took it back a day later because our personalities clashed.

Implausible truth can serve one better than plausible fiction

Freedom!- is the fatuous jingle of our civilization, but only those deprived of it have the barest inkling re: what the stuff actually is.