The men who were well enough to stand had moved across the carriage to cheer the Italians as they went past. A crutch waved out of the window; bandaged forearms made the Red Salute. It was like an allegorical picture of war; the trainload of fresh men gliding proudly up the line, the maimed men sliding slowly down, and all the while the guns on the open trucks making one's heart leap as guns always do, and reviving that pernicious feeling, so difficult to get rid of, that war *is* glorious after all.

It's not so much staying alive, it's staying human that's important. What counts is that we don't betray each other.

Real journalism is publishing something that somebody else does not want published - the rest is just public relations.

News is something somebody doesn't want printed; all else is advertising.

There were sins that were too subtle to be explained, and there were others that were too terrible to be clearly mentioned. For example, there was sex, which was always smouldering just under the surface and which suddenly blew up into a tremendous row when I was about twelve.

Each generation imagines itself to be more intelligent than the one that went before it, and wiser than the one that comes after it.

It is one of the tragedies of the half-educated that they develop late, when they are already committed to some wrong way of life.