One's life is more formed, I sometimes think, by books than by human beings: it is out of books one learns about love and pain at second hand.

Reality in our century is not something to be faced.

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

Morality comes with the sad wisdom of age, when the sense of curiosity has withered.

One never knows enough about characters in real life to put them into novels. One gets started and then, suddenly, one can not remember what toothpaste they use; what are their views on interior decoration, and one is stuck utterly. No, major characters emerge; minor ones may be photographed.

Her face looked ugly in the attempt to avoid tears; it was an ugliness which bound him to her more than any beauty could have done. It isn't being happy together, he thought as though it were a fresh discovery, that makes one love--it's being unhappy together.

I measured love by the extent of my jealousy.