A man may own a ship, but unless he is captain of a crew he goes where the ship goes.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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