Nothing in this world came out of satisfaction. Except the human race.

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

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 trouble with you, dear, is that you think an angel of the Lord as a creature with wings, whereas he is probably a scruffy little man with a bowler hat.

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.

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