Wars are never fought for one reason," he said. "They are fought for dozens of reasons, in a muddle.

Perhaps we all give the best of our hearts uncritically--to those who hardly think about us in return.

They had a year of joy, twelve months of the strange heaven which the salmon know on beds of river shingle, under the gin-clear water. For twenty-four years they were guilty, but this first year was the only one which seemed like happiness. Looking back on it, when they were old, they did not remember that in this year it had ever rained or frozen. The four seasons were coloured like the edge of a rose petal for them.

He did not like the grown-ups who talked down to him, but the ones who went on talking in their usual way, leaving him to leap along in their wake, jumping at meanings, guessing, clutching at known words, and chuckling at complicated jokes as they suddenly dawned. He had the glee of the porpoise then, pouring and leaping through strange seas.

It seems, in tragedy, that innocence is not enough.

Dogs, like very small children, are quite mad.

It was called a tribute before a battle and a ransom afterwards.