People do tell a writer things that they don't tell others. I don't know why, unless it is that having read one or two of his books they feel on peculiarly intimate terms with him; or it may be that they dramatize themselves and, seeing themselves as it were as characters in a novel, are ready to be as open with him as they imagine the characters of his invention are.

I wonder how anyone can have the face to condemn others when he reflects upon his own thoughts.

I would sooner read a timetable or a catalog than nothing at all.

Writing is a wholetime job: no professional writer can afford only to write when he feels like it.

It is well known that Beauty does not look with a good grace on the timid advances of Humour.

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.

It was such a beautiful day I decided to stay in bed.