Sleep is when all the unsorted stuff comes flying out as from a dustbin upset in a high wind.

This is our island. It's a good island. Until the grownups come to fetch us we'll have fun.

Life's scientific, but we don't know, do we? Not certainly, I mean.

It may be -- I hope it is -- redemption to guess and perhaps perceive that the universe, the hell which we see for all its beauty, vastness, majesty, is only part of a whole which is quite unimaginable.

No human endeavour can ever be wholly good... it must always have a cost.

I'm not a critic so much of my own writing. People must make up their own minds over that.

What could be safer than the bus center with its lamps and wheels?