The English inn stands permanently planted at the confluence of the roads of history, memory, and romance.

Talking's just a nervous habit.

I cleared my throat - it isn't frogs you get in your throat; it's memories.

You can never do enough for the dead. You search around for comfort but there is no comfort; there never was and never will be. There is only a gradual wearing away of the sharp edges, so that you don't feel ambushed at every turn, as if you saw the dead suddenly rounding the corner.

Arnold was a dog's dog. Whenever he shuffled along walks and through alleyways, he always gave the impression of being on to something big.

Writing is an antisocial act.

The English inn stands permanently planted at the confluence of the roads of history, memory, and romance.