The weekend break had begun with the usual resentment and had continued with half-repressed ill humour. It was, of course, his fault. He had been more ready to hurt his wife's feelings and deprive his daughter than inconvenience a pub bar full of strangers. He wished there could be one memory of his dead child which wasn't tainted with guilt and regret.

The world is changed not by the self-regarding, but by men and women prepared to make fools of themselves.

I don't see why escapist literature shouldn't also be a work of art.

The weekend break had begun with the usual resentment and had continued with half-repressed ill humour. It was, of course, his fault. He had been more ready to hurt his wife's feelings and deprive his daughter than inconvenience a pub bar full of strangers. He wished there could be one memory of his dead child which wasn't tainted with guilt and regret.

People were excited by violence. What, after all, was the sexual act but a voluntarily endured assault, a momentary death?

If this were fiction, could even the most brilliant novelist contrive to make credible so short a period in which pride had been subdued and prejudice overcome?

We English are good at forgiving our enemies; it releases us from the obligation of liking our friends.