Sleep is when all the unsorted stuff comes flying out as from a dustbin upset in a high wind.
The world, that understandable and lawful world, was slipping away.
Art is partly communication, but only partly. The rest is discovery.
Which is better – to have laws and agree, or to hunt and kill?
They accepted the pleasures of morning, the bright sun, the whelming sea and sweet air, as a time when play was good and life so full that hope was not necessary and therefore forgotten.
Life’s scientific, but we don’t know, do we? Not certainly, I mean.
Language fits over experience like a straight-jacket.
Worse than madness. Sanity.
He lost himself in a maze of thoughts that were rendered vague by his lack of words to express them. Frowning, he tried again.
What could be safer than the bus center with its lamps and wheels?
There is, they say, no fool like an old fool.
Serve you right if something did get you, you useless lot of cry-babies!
Novelists do not write as birds sing, by the push of nature. It is part of the job that there should be much routine and some daily stuff on the level of carpentry.
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.
How can you expect to be rescued if you don’t put first things first and act proper?
Life should serve up its feast of experience in a series of courses.
There’s a kinship among men who have sat by a dying fire and measured the worth of their life by it.
Childhood is a disease – a sickness that you grow out of.
And I’ve been wearing specs since I was three.
An orotundity, which I define as Nobelitis a pomposity in which one is treated as representative of more than oneself by someone conscious of representing more than himself.