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.

Horse sense is the instinct that keeps horses from betting on men.

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.

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

Nothing great ever came out of common sense.

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.

Fasting was good for the imagination but bad for logic.