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.

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

A thousand people drowned in floods in China are news: a solitary child drowned in a pond is tragedy.

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

Truth is often terribly thin, don't you think?

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

Weak people can be very stubborn.