In my firm, we dealt in lies. Advertising is that ... the skilful use of the truth to mislead, to spoil, to debase.

... we do not remember people as they were. What we remember is the effect they had on us then, but we remember it through an emotion charged with all that has since happened to us.

Very rare, the intelligence of the heart. The intelligence of the whimsical brain is less rare, less attaching, sometimes tedious.

Is it really beyond our wits to devise some form of censorship which would trap only the crudely sadistic?

The impossible talked of is less impossible from the moment words are laid to it.

Novelists who treat violence and cruelty as something to be exploited for their effect, or to enjoy the pleasure of an evacuation, are carriers of a singularly unpleasant disease.

I do not think about absent persons as often or with such intense longing as I think of places. They lie one below the other in my mind.