I can only guess that it made the world he went back to...strangely without meaning. Though he lived in it, though he even enjoyed it, it remained utterly remote. I think it had lost sense for him. In his heart was the reflection of a lovely dream that he could never quite recall.

Now it is a funny thing about life. If you refuse to accept anything but the best, you very often get it. If you utterly decline to make do with what you can get, then somehow or other, you are very likely to get what you want.

Tolerance is only another name for indifference.

There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.

Nothing in the world is permanent, and we’re foolish when we ask anything to last, but surely we’re still more foolish not to take delight in it while we have it.

A good story is obviously a difficult thing to invent, but its difficulty is a poor reason for despising it.

You tend to close your eyes to truth, beauty and goodness because they give no scope to your sense of the ridiculous.