A cat only has itself.

My grief is that the publishing world, the book writing world is an extraordinary shoddy, dirty, dingy world.

The melancholy thing about the world is that it is full of stupid people; and the world is run for the benefit of the stupid and common.

A cat only has itself.

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.

All the details of the life and the quirks and the friendships can be laid out for us, but the mystery of the writing will remain. No amount of documentation, however fascinating, can take us there.

I profoundly feel that people are letting you down all the time.