The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said.
All the unhurried day / Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives.
Death: the anaesthetic from which none come round.
As a child, I thought I hated everybody, but when I grew up I realized it was just children I didn't like.
I am beginning to think of the human imagination as a fruit machine on which victories are rare and separated by much vain expense, and represent a rare alignment of mental and spiritual qualities that normally are quite at odds.
Saki says that youth is like hors d'oeuvres: you are so busy thinking of the next courses you don't notice it. When you've had them, you wish you'd had more hors d'oeuvres.