Feather-footed through the plashy fen passes the questing vole.'-William Boot

Anyone could write a novel given six weeks, pen paper, and no telephone or wife.

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.

He was gifted with the sly, sharp instinct for self-preservation that passes for wisdom among the rich.

Don't hold your parents up to contempt. After all, you are their son, and it is just possible that you may take after them.

I think there's almost nothing I can't excuse except perhaps worshiping graven images. That seems to be idiotic.

One can write, think and pray exclusively of others; dreams are all egocentric.