Rocinante was of more value for a true traveller than a jet plane. Jet planes were for business men.

Thought's a luxury. Do you think the peasant sits and thinks of God and Democracy when he gets inside his mud hut at night?

My two fingers on a typewriter have never connected with my brain. My hand on a pen does. A fountain pen, of course. Ball-point pens are only good for filling out forms on a plane.

I say that home is where there is a chair and a glass.

She had lost all our memories for ever, and it was as though by dying she had robbed me of part of myself. I was losing my individuality. It was the first stage of my own death, the memories dropping off like gangrened limbs.

He was like a child with haemophilia: every contact drew blood.

The problem of pretending to be alive.