In our island myth this was the prescribed end of marriages like mine: the wife goes off with someone from the Cercle Sportif, outside whose gates at night the willingly betrayed husband waits in his motorcar. The circumstances were slightly.

The world is what it is; men who are nothing, who allow themselves to become nothing, have no place in it.

I came to London. It had become the center of my world and I had worked hard to come to it. And I was lost.

You can't deny what you've learned; you can't deny your travels; you can't deny the nature of your life.

All the things that were read to me by my father were stories about things becoming all right.

And it was strange, I thought, that sorrow lasts and can make a man look forward to death, but the mood of victory fills a moment and then is over

How could people like these, without words to put to their emotions and passions, manage? They could, at best, only suffer dumbly. Their pains and humiliations would work themselves out in their characters alone: like evil spirits possessing a body, so that the body itself might appear innocent of what it did.