We never get accustomed to being less important to other people than they are to us.

Lies had deserted me, and I felt as lonely as though they had been my only friends.

Despair is the price one pays for setting himself an impossible aim.

I had to touch you with my hands, I had to taste you with my tongue; one can't love and do nothing.

He felt the loyalty we feel to unhappiness - the sense that is where we really belong.

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.

Happiness is never really so welcome as changelessness.