Memory must be patchy; what is more alarming is its face-savingness. Something in one shrinks from catching it out - unique to oneself, one's own, one's claim to identity, it implicates one's identity in its fibbing.

Who is ever adequate? We all create situations each other can't live up to, then break our hearts at them because they don't.

nobody ever dies of an indignity.

Raids are slightly constipating.

What's the matter with this country is the matter with the lot of us individually - our sense of personality is a sense of outrage.

... artists were intended to be an ornament to society. As a society in themselves they are unthinkable.

I can't see or feel the conflict between love and religion. To me, they're the same thing.