Innocence Is A Kind Of Insanity

He Couldn't Tell That This Was One Of Those Occasions A Man Never Forgets: A Small Cicatrice Had Been Made On The Memory, A Wound That Would Ache Whenever Certain Things Combined - The Taste Of Gin At Mid-day, The Smell Of Flowers Under A Balcony, The Clang Of Corrugated Iron, An Ugly Bird Flopping From Perch To Perch.

So Long As One Is Happy One Can Endure Any Discipline: It Was Unhappiness That Broke Down The Habits Of Work.

In The End There Is No Desire So Deep As The Simple Desire For Companionship.

So Much Of Life [is] A Putting-off Of Unhappiness For Another Time. Nothing [is] Ever Lost By Delay.

All Good Novelists Have Bad Memories.