Where's the man could ease a heart Like a satin gown?

Nevil Shute's On the Beach is no Christmas carol, but it seems to me a remarkably fine novel, one which I read, in the peculiarly repulsive phrase, with my eyes glued to the page.

But I don't give up; I forget why not.

Time may be a great healer, but it's a lousy beautician.

I find her anecdotes more efficacious than sheep-counting, rain on a tin roof, or alanol tablets.... you will find me and Morpheus, off in a corner, necking.

Innocence is a desirable thing, a dainty thing, an appealing thing, in its place; but carried too far, it is merely ridiculous.

Sure, you make money writing on the coast ... but that money is like so much compressed snow. It goes so fast it melts in your hand.