Without doubt cats are intellectuals who have been, by some mysterious decree of Providence, deprived of the comfort of the word.

There are two kinds of imperialists - imperialists and bloody imperialists.

International relationships are preordained to be clumsy gestures based on imperfect knowledge.

If the whole human race lay in one grave, the epitaph on its headstone might well be: 'It seemed like a good idea at the time.'

Motherhood is the strangest thing, it can be like being one's own Trojan horse.

I take it as a prime cause of the present confusion of society that it is too sickly and too doubtful to use pleasure frankly as a test of value.

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