How often the priest had heard the same confession--Man was so limited: he hadn't even the ingenuity to invent a new vice: the animals knew as much. It was for this world that Christ had died: the more evil you saw and heard about you, the greater the glory lay around the death; it was too easy to die for what was good or beautiful, for home or children or civilization--it needed a God to die for the half-hearted and the corrupt.

If you live in a place for long you cease to read about it.

So much in writing depends on the superficiality of one's days.

Would the world be in the mess it is if we were loyal to love and not to countries?

A man kept his character even when he was insane.

God created a number of possibilities in case some of his prototypes failed - that is the meaning of evolution.

A petty reason perhaps why novelists more and more try to keep a distance from journalists is that novelists are trying to write the truth and journalists are trying to write fiction.