I think I hate snow, downright hate it. There is something stupefying in it, a kind of 'You must be worse before you're better,' and down it spins.

The pleasure of all reading is doubled when one lives with another who shares the same books.

The ostrich burying its head in the sand does at any rate wish to convey the impression that its head is the most important part of it.

England is merely an island of beef swimming in a warm gulf stream of gravy.

There is no feeling to be compared with the feeling of having written and finished a story.

I must say, I hate money. But it's the lack of it I hate most.

The mind I love must have wild places.