I have been in the scholastic profession long enough to know that nobody enters it unless he has some very good reason that he is anxious to conceal.

You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people.

I had been there before; I knew all about it.

I'm quite deaf now; such a comfort.

No one could really hate a saint, could they? They can't really hate God either. When they want to Hate Him and His saints they have to find something like themselves and pretends it's God and hate that.

I felt that I was leaving part of myself behind, and that wherever I went afterwards I should feel the lack of it, and search for it hopelessly, as ghosts are said to do, frequenting the spots where they buried material treasures without which they cannot pay their way to the nether world.

My children weary me. I can only see them as defective adults: feckless, destructive, frivolous, sensual, humorless.