One of the quainter quirks of life is that we shall never know who dies on the dame day as we do ourselves.

I am always trying to 'preserve' things by getting other people to read what I have written, and feel what I felt.

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.

Originality is being different from oneself, not others.

How little our careers express what lies in us, and yet how much time they take up. It's sad, really.

A good meal can somewhat repair / The eatings of slight love

There is bad in all good authors: what a pity the converse isn't true!