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.

No form of art repeats or imitates successfully all that can be said by another; the writer conveys his experience of life along a channel of communication closed to painter, mathematician, musician, film-maker.

... the truth is exactly that which can't be got into words. We are forced to lie, a little or, if we are inferior, much.

Failures to love are irremediable and irredeemable.

She did not so much cook as assassinate food.

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

Mere human beings cant afford to be fanatical about anything. Not even about justice or loyalty. The fanatic for justice ends by murdering a million helpless people to clear a space for his law-courts. If we are to survive on this planet, there must be compromises.