Hope, politeness, the blowing of a nose, the squeak of a boot, all produce "boum.

What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives?

Railway termini are our gates to the glorious and the unknown. Through them we pass out into adventure and sunshine, to them, alas! we return.

Riposte of "that old lady in the anecdote who was accused by her nieces of being illogical," Logic! Good gracious! What rubbish! How can I tell what I think till I see what I say?

Our final experience, like our first, is conjectural. We move between two darkness's.

Only people who have been allowed to practise freedom can have the grown-up look in their eyes.

If only the sense of actuality can be lulled-and it sleeps for ever in most historians-there is no passion that cannot be gratified in the past.