Many people misjudge the permanent effect of sorrow, and their capacity to live in the past.

I never know why self-sacrifice is noble. Why is it better to sacrifice oneself than someone else?

Most of the pleasure of making a book would go if it held nothing to be shared by other people. I would write for a few dozen people, and sometimes it seems that I do so, but I would not write for no-one.

As regards plots I find real life no help at all. Real life seems to have no plots.

I think I feel on the whole that something's there trying to get out ... It's sort of trying to get out and wants help.

If I were not a child with my parents, they would be more unloving toward me.

Civilized life exacts its toll.