It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life.

I am fifty years old and I have never known what it is to love. I can write those words, know them to be true, but feel only the regret that a tone-deaf man must feel because he can't appreicate music, a regret less keen because it is for something never known, not for something lost.

Murder is the unique crime, the only one for which we can never make reparation to the victim.

we can forgive anything as long as it isn't done to us.

Suicide is the most private and mysterious of acts, inexplicable because the chief actor is never there to explain it.

Old age makes caricatures of us all.

Human kindness is like a defective tap, the first gush may be impressive but the stream soon dries up.