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

Letterwriting is the natural outlet of the "odds." The busy-bodies, the idle, the perverted, the cranks, the feel-it-my-duties ... Also the plain depraved. They all write letters. It's their safe outlet, you see. They can be as interfering, as long-winded, as obscene, as pompous, as one-idea'd, as they like on paper, and no one can kick them for it. So they write. My God, how they write!

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.

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

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

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

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