Human nature is not black and white but black and grey.

And there, in that phrase, the bitterness leaks again out of my pen. What a dull lifeless quality this bitterness is. If I could I would write with love, but if I could write with love I would be another man; I would never have lost love.

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

I have never understood why people who can swallow the enormous improbability of a personal God boggle at a personal Devil.

Death was far more certain than God.

Death never mattered at those times - in the early days I even used to pray for it: the shattering annihilation that would prevent for ever the getting up, the putting on of clothes, the wathchign her torch trail across to the opposite side of the common like the tail-light of a low car driving away.

Pity is cruel. Pity destroys.