I write about myself with the same pencil and in the same exercise book as about him. It is no longer I, but another whose life is just beginning.

I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.

I have nothing but wastes and wilds of self-translation before me for many miserable months to come.

Hardly had the glow been kindled by some good deed on your part or by some little triumph over your rivals or by a word of praisefrom your parents or mentors when it would begin to cool and fade leaving you in a very short time as chill and dim as before.

Humbly to ask a favour of people who are on the point of knocking your brains out sometimes produces good results.

The loss of my sight was a great fillip. If I could go deaf and dumb I think I might pant on to be a hundred.

What do we do now, now that we are happy?