Makes of men date, like makes of car.

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

The paradox of romantic love -- that what one possesses, one can no longer desire -- was at work.

To the sun Rome owes its underlying glow, and its air called golden - to me, more the yellow of white wine; like wine it raises agreeability to poetry.

Raids are slightly constipating.

That is partly why women marry - to keep up the fiction of being in the hub of things.

... it appears to me that problems, inherent in any writing, loom unduly large when one looks ahead. Though nothing is easy, little is quite impossible.