I have long come to believe that, more than any other destruction, our word-recklessness is endangering the future of us all.

The beckoning counts, and not the clicking of the latch behind you.

Whoever designed this frigging map was having a laugh. Just around the corner, my arse.

Love, like broken porcelain, should be wept over and buried, for nothing but a miracle will resuscitate it: but who in this world has not for some wild moments thought to recall the irrecoverable with words?

A pen and a notebook and a reasonable amount of discrimination will change a journey from a mere annual into a perennial, its pleasures and pains renewable at will.

To feel, and think, and learn - learn always: surely that is being alive and young in the real sense

Time is the sea in which men grow, are born, or die.