When I reached C Company lines, which were at the top of the hill, I paused and looked back at the camp, just coming into full view below me through the grey mist of early morning.

"What war?" said the Prime Minister sharply. "No one has said anything to me about a war. I really think I should have been told. I'll be damned," he said defiantly, "if they shall have a war without consulting me. What's a cabinet for, if there's not more mutual confidence than that? What do they want a war for anyway?"

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

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

Sometimes, I feel the past and the future pressing so hard on either side that there's no room for the present at all.

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

We possess nothing certainly except the past