... it's been a perpetual discovery, my life. A miracle.

How far do our feelings take their colour from the dive underground? I mean, what is the reality of any feeling?

She had read a wonderful play about a man who scratched on the wall of his cell and she had felt that was true of life — one scratched on the wall.

One should aim, seriously, at disregarding ups and downs; a compliment here, silence there ... the central fact remains stable, which is the fact of my own pleasure in the art.

They say the sky is the same everywhere. Travellers, the shipwrecked, exiles, and the dying draw comfort from the thought.

One has to secrete a jelly in which to slip quotations down people's throats - and one always secretes too much jelly.

I worship you, but I loathe marriage. I hate its smugness, its safety, its compromise and the thought of you interfering with my work, hindering me; what would you answer?