The appalling thing about war is that it kills all love of truth.

I was a town child, it is true, but that did not prevent me enjoying open-air life, with plants and animals.

My father, though, could run very much faster. It was impossible to compete with him on the grass. But it was astonishing how slow old people were. Some of them could not run up a hill and called it trying to climb stairs.

Poor is the power of the lead that becomes bullets compared to the power of the hot metal that becomes types.

Among the delights of Summer were picnics to the woods.

A love for humanity came over me, and watered and fertilised the fields of my inner world which had been lying fallow, and this love of humanity vented itself in a vast compassion.

I came into the world two months too soon, I was in such a hurry.