It is a sadness of growing older that some of us lose our ardent appreciation of what is new and different and difficult.

It is all very well, when the pen flows, but then there are the dark days when imagination deserts one, and it is an effort to put anything down on paper. That little you have achieved stares at you at the end of the day, and you know the next morning you will have to scrape it down and start again.

You would not think that birds who have no brain at all could become so friendly. I swear some of them are more intelligent than many humans, but that says more about our fellow beings than it does about the birds.

One remembers horrors, I think, for the rest of one's life, but memories do not always remain so sharp, and with time, and new circumstance, do not affect us so powerfully.

People make one happy, not houses? I do not think so. Houses are more to be trusted than people.

Concern for someone else was a good remedy for taking the mind off one's own troubles.

It's not what you want in this life, it's what you get that you have to do with.