Sob, heavy world Sob as you spin, Mantled in mist Remote from the happy.

Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links, Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks, Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sigh There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.

There are not many English novels which deserve to be called great: Parade's End is one of them.

Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Fame often makes a writer vain, but seldom makes him proud.

All sins tend to be addictive, and the terminal point of addiction is damnation.

a culture is no better than its woods