one blow in anger [would] kill, probably, a child from aged two to eight. Those over eight would take two blows to kill.

The justice I have received, I shall give back.

My New Year’s Eve Toast: to all the devils, lusts, passions, greeds, envies, loves, hates, strange desires, enemies ghostly and real, the army of memories, with which I do battle — may they never give me peace. (New Year's Eve, 1947)

The conversation seemed just as boring and forgettable as details of American history around 1805, for example.

The kiss became the narrowed center of the still point of the turning world, so that even the park was turning in comparison to the still peace at their lips.

Anticipation! It occurred to him that his anticipation was more pleasant to him than the experiencing.

Each book is, in a sense, an argument with myself, and I would write it, whether it is ever published or not.