Habits in writing as in life are only useful if they are broken as soon as they cease to be advantageous.

A mother only does her children harm if she makes them the only concern of her life.

The officers saluted as she passed and gravely bowed. They walked back across the courtyard and got into their chairs. She saw Waddington light a cigarette. A little smoke lost in the air, that was the life of a man.

A state of reverie does not avoid reality, it accedes to reality.

Of all these the richest in beauty is the beautiful life. That is the perfect work of art. ~Waddington

Everyone had some defect, or body or of mind: he thought of all the people he had known (the whole world was like a sick house and there was no rhyme or reason in it), he saw a long procession, deformed in body, warped in mind, some with illness of the flesh, weak hearts or weak lungs, and some with illness of the spirit, languor of will, or craving for liquor. At that moment he felt a holy compassion for them all. …The words of the dying God crossed his memory: Forgive them, for they know not what they do.

There is only one thing about which I am certain, and this is that there is very little about which one can be certain