We remember the details of our story, we do not invent them.

Except for the sound of the rain, on the road, on the roofs, on the umbrella, there was absolute silence: only the dying moan of the sirens continued for a moment or two to vibrate within the ear. It seemed to Scobie later that this was the ultimate border he had reached in happiness: being in darkness, alone, with the rain falling, without love or pity.

You cannot conceive, nor can I, of the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God.

Cruel men cry easily at the cinema.

Grief and disappointment are like hate: they make men ugly with self-pity and bitterness. And how selfish they make us too.

It was like having a box of chocolates shut in the bedroom drawer. Until the box was empty it occupied the mind too much.

I want men to admire me, but that's a trick you learn at school--a movement of the eyes, a tone of voice, a touch of the hand on the shoulder or the head. If they think you admire them, they will admire you because of your good taste, and when they admire you, you have an illusion for a moment that there's something to admire.