Karen, her elbows folded on the deck-rail, wanted to share with someone the pleasure in being alone: this is the paradox of any happy solitude. She had never landed at Cork, so this hill and that hill beyond were as unexpected as pictures at which you say "Oh look!" Nobody was beside her to share the moment, which would have been imperfect with anyone else there.

Habit, of which passion must be wary, may all the same be the sweetest part of love.

Plot is the knowing of destination.

My writing, I am prepared to think, may be a substitute for something I have been born without - a so-called normal relation to society. My books are my relation to society.

Chance is better than choice; it is more lordly. Chance is God, choice is man.

Curiosity in Rome is a form of courtesy.

Language is a mixture of statement and evocation.