One minute. You know nothing about him. He probably has his own joys and interests- wife, children, snug little home. That's where we practical fellows'- he smiled-'are more tolerant than you intellectuals. We live and let live, and assume that things are jogging on fairly well elsewhere, and that the ordinary plain man may be trusted to look after his own affairs.

Adventures do occur, but not punctually.

There's enough sorrow in the world, isn't there, without trying to invent it.

There is much good luck in the world, but it is luck. We are none of us safe. We are children, playing or quarrelling on the line.

I believe in teaching people to be individuals, and to understand other individuals.

Expansion, that is the idea the novelist must cling to, not completion, not rounding off, but opening out.

When love flies it is remembered not as love but as something else. Blessed are the uneducated, who forget it entirely, and are never conscious of folly or pruriency in the past, of long aimless conversations.