After three days without one, the desire to read a newspaper vanished. And really, one was happier without.

He knew by heart every last minute crack on its surface. He had made maps of the ceiling and gone exploring on them; rivers, islands, and continents. He had made guessing games of it and discovered hidden objects; faces, birds, and fishes. He made mathematical calculations of it and rediscovered his childhood; theorems, angles, and triangles. There was practically nothing else he could do but look at it. He hated the sight of it.

I expect this is what death is like when you meet it. Sort of wildly unfair but inevitable.

You can't have a tin can tied to your tail and go through life pretending it isn't there.

Truth isn’t in accounts but in account-books.

One would expect boredom to be a great yawning emotion, but it isn't, of course. It's a small niggling thing.

It was pleasant to talk shop again; to use that elliptical, allusive speech that one uses only with another of one's trade.