There is no real escape from autobiography into biography. The self has to be faced, or we die.

Nothing happens, and nothing happens, and then everything happens.

Nowadays most people wear black most of the time anyway: go to a literary party and one would imagine everyone there was in perpetual mourning for their lives.

One can learn, at least. One can go on learning until the day one is cut off.

If I am a prolific writer and turn my hand, with what seems to some as indecent haste, from novels to screenplays to stage and radio plays, it is because there is so much to be said, so few of us to say it, and time runs out.

Letters crossing in the post, unfamiliar tunes heard three times in one day, the way that blows of fate descend upon the same bowed shoulders, and the beams of good fortune glow perpetually upon the blessed. Fairy tales, as I said, are lived out daily. There is far more going on in the world than we ever imagine.

Only one thing registers on the subconscious mind: repetitive application - practice. What you practice is what you manifest.