I wonder if we are all wrong about each other, if we are just composing unwritten novels about the people we meet?

The childhood of the individual and the race is full of fears, and panic-stricken attempts to avert what is feared by placating the gods with painful sacrifices.

[Evelyn Waugh] made drunkenness cute and chic, and then took to religion, simply to have the most expensive carpet of all to be sick on.

It is a great pity that every human being does not, at an early stage of his life, have to write a historical work. He would then realize that the human race is in quite a jam about truth.

No great thing happens suddenly.

What is art? It is not decoration. It is the re-living of experience.

There is, of course, no reason for the existence of the male sex except that one sometimes needs help with moving the piano.