The real lost souls don't wear their hair long and play guitars. They have crew cuts and trained minds, sign on for research in biological warfare, and don't give their parents a moment's worry.

Man, the creature who knows he must die, who has dreams larger than his destiny, who is forever working a confidence trick on himself, needs an ally. Mine has been tobacco.

The Canadian is often a baffled man because he feels different from his British kindred and his American neighbours, sharply refused to be lumped together with either of them, yet cannot make plain his difference.

I fancy that the Hell of Too Many People would occupy a respectable place in the hierarchy of infernal regions.

Like its politicians and its wars, society has the teenagers it deserves.

What a grand, higgledy-piggledy, sensible old place Norwich is!

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