Regret is an appalling waste of time.

I always felt that the great high privilege, relief and comfort of friendship was that one had to explain nothing.

Better to write twaddle, anything, than nothing at all.

No, no the mind I love must still have wild places - a tangled orchard where dark damsons drop in the heavy grass, an overgrown litde wood, the chance of a snake or two (real snakes), a pool that nobody's fathomed the depth of, and paths threaded with those litde flowers planted by the wind.

Every time one leaves anywhere, something precious, which ought not to be killed, is left to die.

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

That's all life is - something childish and very natural. Isn't it?