The craft of the novelist does lie first of all in story-telling.
Meeting people unlike oneself does not enlarge one's outlook; it only confirms one's idea that one is unique.
Sins cut boldly up through every class in society, but mere misdemeanours show a certain level in life.
Silence sat in the taxi, as though a stranger had got in.
Writers do not find subjects; subjects find them.
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.