At the age of twelve I was finding the world too small: it appeared to me like a dull, trim back garden, in which only trivial games could be played.

When one is a child, the disposition of objects, tables and chairs and doors, seems part of the natural order: a house-move lets in chaos - as it does for a dog.

Have not all poetic truths been already stated? The essence of a poetic truth is that no statement of it can be final.

without fiction, either life would be insufficient or the winds from the north would blow too cold.

Fate is not an eagle, it creeps like a rat.

the slight sense of degeneracy induced by reading novels before luncheon

Silence sat in the taxi, as though a stranger had got in.