Love, always love. Perhaps that’s what we’re all looking for.

A letter is paradoxically the most revealing and the most deceptive of confessional revelations. We all have our inconsistencies, prejudices, irrationalities which, although strongly felt at the time, may be transitory. A letter captures the mood of the moment. The transitory becomes immutably fixed, part of the evidence for the prosecution or the defence.

Love, always love. Perhaps that’s what we’re all looking for.

First-class travel, provided one hasn't to pay for it oneself, is the most insidiously addictive of life's luxuries.

Childhood is the one prison from which there's no escape, the one sentence from which there's no appeal. We all serve our time.

I find it extraordinary that a straightforward if inelegant device for ensuring the survival of the species should involve human beings in such emotional turmoil. Does sex have to be taken so seriously?

I don't want anyone to look to me, not for protection, not for happiness, not for love, not for anything.