It is good fiction, so largely ignored now, that brings us so much closer to the real facts.

Childhood, catching our imagination when it is fresh and tender, never lets go of us.

To resent and remember brings strife; to forgive and forget brings peace.

The people who pretend that dying is rather like strolling into the next room always leave me unconvinced. Death, like birth, must be a tremendous event.

Our trouble is that we drink too much tea. I see in this the slow revenge of the Orient, which has diverted the Yellow River down our throats.

Write as often as possible, not with the idea at once of getting into print, but as if you were learning an instrument.

I have always been delighted at the prospect of a new day, a fresh try, one more start, with perhaps a bit of magic waiting somewhere behind the morning.