For neither life nor nature cares if justice is ever done or not.

Honesty, for me, is usually the worst policy imaginable.

Then Carol slipped her arm under her neck, and all the length of their bodies touched fitting as if something had prearranged it. Happiness was like a green vine spreading through her, stretching fine tendrils, bearing flowers through her flesh. She had a vision of a pale white flower, shimmering as if seen in darkness, or through water. Why did people talk of heaven, she wondered

I know you have it in you, Guy," Anne said suddenly at the end of a silence, "the capacity to be terribly happy.

And no book, and possibly no painting, when it is finished, is ever exactly like the first dream of it.

I have Graham Greene's telephone number, but I wouldn't dream of using it. I don't seek out writers because we all want to be alone.

I find the public passion for justice quite boring and artificial.