When lightning strikes, the mouse is sometimes burned with the farm.

... most people are dead, and none of them seem to mind it. One hears a great many complaints about life, doesn't one? And there are people I know who would certainly grumble -- however dead they were -- if there were anything to grumble at.

What are so mysterious as the eyes of a child?

This is the real tragedy of mankind, that until now the spirit of man has not been able to free itself, even along the path of its own development, from the tentacles of self-deception.

A blossom must break the sheath it has been sheltered by.

If a writer is true to his characters they will give him his plot. Observations must play second fiddle to integrity.

Life was a series of messes, and one spent one's time cleaning them up; if one had any heart at all one also gave a part of one's time to cleaning up those of other people.