It is Sunday, mid-morning-Sunday in the living room, Sunday in the kitchen, Sunday in the woodshed, Sunday down the road in the village: I hear the bells, calling me to share God's grace.

Extreme cold when it first arrives seems to generate cheerfulness and sociability. For a few hours all life's dubious problems are dropped in favor of the clear and congenial task of keeping alive.

Reading is the work of the alert mind, is demanding, and under ideal conditions produces finally a sort of ecstasy.

Habitually creative people are prepared to be lucky.

The only sense that is common in the long run, is the sense of change and we all instinctively avoid it.

When my wife's Aunt Caroline was in her nineties, she lived with us, and she once remarked: 'Remembrance is sufficient of the beauty we have seen.' I cherish the remembrance of the beauty I have seen. I cherish the grave, compulsive word.

Democracy is a request from a War Board, in the middle of a morning in the middle of a war, wanting to know what democracy is.