Then you have people coming up like Malcolm Bradbury, a relatively young writer who deals with the academic scene and deals with it, I think, brilliantly.

There's a kinship among men who have sat by a dying fire and measured the worth of their life by it.

I believe man suffers from an appalling ignorance of his own nature. I produce my own view in the belief that it may be something like the truth.

However you disguise novels, they are always biographies.

Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man's heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called Piggy.

The beast was harmless and horrible; and the news must reach the others as soon as possible.

Couldn't a fire outrun a galloping horse?