...surely I could give him--a sort of contentment... That isn't enough to give. Not for the giver.

Topaz was wonderfully patient - but sometimes I wonder if it is not only patience, but also a faint resemblance to cows.

Thinking of death--strange, beautiful, terrible and a long way off--made me feel happier than ever.

Certain unique books seem to be without forerunners or successors as far as their authors are concerned. Even though they may profoundly influence the work of other writers, for their creator they're complete, not leading anywhere.

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.

I wonder if there isn't a catch about having plenty of money? Does it eventually take the pleasure out of things?

There was a wonderful atmosphere of gentle age, a smell of flowers and beeswax, sweet yet faintly sour and musty; a smell that makes you feel very tender towards the past.