We are lucky, even the worst of us, for daylight comes.

The work that lasts over time is the work which still speaks to us when all contemporary interest in that work is extinct.

It is the nature of walls that they should fall.

I walked out to brood on this life of ours, which seems from birth to death to be a steady loss, disguised by sudden gains and happiness, which persuade us of good fortune, when all the while the glass is emptying.

I used to think marriage was a plate-glass window just begging for a brick.

Her butler opened it for her. His name was Boredom. She said, 'Boredom, fetch me a plaything.' He said 'Very good ma'am,' and putting on his white gloves so that fingerprints would not show he tapped at my heart and I thought he said his name was Love.

Part broken - part whole, you begin again. ( from 'Why books seem shockproof against change.' THE TIMES: BOOKS)