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

There were people whose only interest in life was writing letters. To the newspapers, to authors, to strangers, to City Councils, to the police. It did not much matter to whom; the satisfaction of writing seemed to be all.

That was the way with grief: it left you alone for months together until you thought that you were cured, and then without warning it blotted out the sunlight.

The truth of anything at all doesn't lie in someone's account of it. It lies in all the small facts of the time. An advertisement in a paper, the sale of a house, the price of a ring.

If you think about the unthinkable long enough it becomes quite reasonable.

Fasting was good for the imagination but bad for logic.

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