There is something incomparably thrilling in first opening a brand new book.

After all, damn it, what does being in love mean if you can't trust a person.

There is an Easter sense in which all things are made new in the risen Christ. A tiny gleam of this is reflected in all true art.

How ungenerously in later life we disclaim the virtuous moods of our youth, living in retrospect long, summer days of unreflecting dissipation.

We class schools into four grades: leading school, first-rate school, good school and school.

Where can we hide in fair weather, we orphans of the storm?

I'm one of the blind alleys off the main road of procreation.