A visitor is a friend, he brings news, good or bad, which is bread to the hungry minds in lonely places. A real friend who comes to the house is a heavenly messenger, who brings the panis angelorum.

Where a pack of monkeys had traveled over the road, the smell of them lingered for a long time in the air, a dry and stale, mousy smell.

One does not travel by plane. One is merely sent, like a parcel.

There are many ways to the recognition of truth, and Burgundy is one of them.

I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills.

But by the time that I had nothing left, I myself was the lightest thing of all for fate to get rid of.

I don't think... one get a flash of happiness once, and never again; it is there deep within you.