Nothing great ever came out of common sense.

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.

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

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

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

It was pleasant to talk shop again; to use that elliptical, allusive speech that one uses only with another of one's trade.

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