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

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.

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

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.

Nothing puts things in perspective as quickly as a mountain.

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

The worst of pushing horrible things down into one's subconscious is that when they pop up again they are as fresh as if they had been in a refrigerator. You haven't allowed time to get at them to-to mould them over a little.