What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.

Now that cleverness was the fashion most people were clever - even perfect fools; and cleverness after all was often only a bore: all head and no body

He got out of bed and peeped through the blinds. To the east and opposite to him gardens and an apple-orchard lay, and there in strange liquid tranquility hung the morning star, and rose, rilling into the dusk of night the first grey of dawn. The street beneath its autumn leaves was vacant, charmed, deserted.

Oh, pity the poor glutton Whose troubles all begin In struggling on and on to turn What's out into what's in.

God has mercifully ordered that the human brain works slowly; first the blow, hours afterwards the bruise.

An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.

Without imagination of the one kind or of the other, mortal existence is indeed a dreary and prosaic business... Illumined by the imagination, our life, whatever its defeats - is a never-ending unforeseen strangeness and adventure and mystery.