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

Honestly, I haven't the time to read contemporary writers. I know this is awful, but in the main it is true.

Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against this as a method, but it is not what English writers do.

Together, joined in effort by the burden, they staggered up the last steep of the mountain. Together, they chanted One! Two! Three! and crashed the log on to the great pile. Then they stepped back, laughing with triumphant pleasure.

In India the odd thing is that English is this almost artificial language floating on the surface of a place with about fifty other languages. The same is true of Nigeria but even more so.

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

To be in a world which is a hell, to be of that world and neither to believe in or guess at anything but that world is not merely hell but the only possible damnation: the act of a man damning himself. It may be