The present flowed by them like a stream. The tree rustled. It had made music before they were born, and would continue after their deaths, but its song was of the moment. The moment had passed. The tree rustled again. Their senses were sharpened, and they seemed to apprehend life. Life passed. The tree rustled again.

There has been, is, and always will be every conceivable type of person.

It is never possible for a novelist to deny time inside the fabric of his novel: he must cling, however lightly, to the thread of his story, he must touch the interminable tapeworm, otherwise he becomes unintelligible, which, in his case, is a blunder.

Outside the arch, always there seemed another arch. And beyond the remotest echo, a silence.

The only books that influence us are those for which we are ready, and which have gone a little farther down our particular path than we have yet got ourselves.

Life - No, I've nothing to teach you about it for the moment. May be writing about it another week.

It's miles worse for you than that; I'm in love with your gamekeeper.