Most people, in my opinion, steal much of what they are. If they didn't what poor items they would be.

Women were brought up to believe that men were the answer. They weren't. They weren't even one of the questions.

And perhaps it was also the case that, for all a lifetime's internal struggling, you were finally no more than what others saw you as. That was your nature, whether you liked it or not.

Books are where things are explained to you; life is where things aren't.

In Britain I'm sometimes regarded as a suspiciously Europeanized writer, who has this rather dubious French influence.

And that's a life, isn't it? Some achievements and some disappointments. It's been interesting to me, though I wouldn't complain or be amazed if others found it less so. Maybe, in a way, Adrian knew what he was doing. Not that I would have missed my own life for anything, you understand. [pp.60-61]

What happiness is there in just the memory of happiness?