Writing is still like heaving bricks over a wall.

And it was awfully strange, he thought, how she still had the power, as she came tinkling, rustling, still had the power as she came across the room, to make the moon, which he detested, rise at Bourton on the terrace in the summer sky.

Does Nature supplement what man advanced? Or does she complete what he began?

Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.

There was a day when I liked writing letters -- it has gone. Unfortunately the passion for getting them remains.

I like the unreality of your mind; the whole thing is very splendid and voluptuous and absurd.

The current flows fast and furious. It issues in a spate of words from the loudspeakers and the politicians. Every day they tell us that we are a free people fighting to defend freedom. That is the current that has whirled the young airman up into the sky and keeps him circulating there among the clouds. Down here, with a roof to cover us and a gasmask handy, it is our business to puncture gasbags and discover the seeds of truth.