If all the girls attending [the Yale prom] were laid end to end, I wouldn't be at all surprised.
They tire of quiet, that have known the storm
I shudder at the thought of men.... I'm due to fall in love again
Yet, as only New Yorkers know, if you can get through the twilight, you'll live through the night.
I wish, I wish I were a poisonous bacterium.
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.