One is certain of nothing but the truth of one's own emotions.

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.

He stretched out his hands as he sang, sadly, because all beauty is sad…The poem had done no ‘good’ to anyone, but it was a passing reminder, a breath from the divine lips of beauty, a nightingale between two worlds of dust. Less explicit than the call to Krishna, it voiced our loneliness nevertheless, our isolation, our need for the Friend who never comes yet is not entirely disproved.

I'm a holy man minus the holiness.

Life never gives us what we want at the moment that we consider appropriate.

“It is Fate that I am here,” persisted George. “But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy.”

Letters have to pass two tests before they can be classed as good: they must express the personality both of the writer and of the recipient.