Once you gave a thing a name, you gave it life.

He moved on, in the centre of a widening circle. He wasn't an enemy, he was a nemesis.

He looked up at them, a scruffy Napoleon with his laces trailing, exiled to a rose-trellised Elba.

These weren't cheap modern books; these were books bound in leather, and not just leather, but leather from clever cows who had given their lives for literature after a happy existence in the very best pastures.

You know I've never agreed with baths. Sittin' around in your own dirt like that.

Everything starts somewhere, although many physicists disagree.

By the time you've reached your sixties, you do know that one day you will die, and knowing that is at least the beginning of wisdom.