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

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

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

Early this morning, 1 January 2021, three minutes after midnight, the last human being to be born on earth was killed in a pub brawl in a suburb of Buenos Aires, aged twenty-five years, two months and twelve days.

The tragedy of loss is not that we grieve, but that we cease to grieve, and then perhaps the dead are dead at last.

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

In 1930s mysteries, all sorts of motives were credible which aren't credible today, especially motives of preventing guilty sexual secrets from coming out. Nowadays, people sell their guilty sexual secrets.