Pity Is Cruel. Pity Destroys.

Christmas It Seems To Me Is A Necessary Festival; We Require A Season When We Can Regret All The Flaws In Our Human Relationships: It Is The Feast Of Failure, Sad But Consoling.

O God, You've Done Enough, You've Robbed Me Of Enough, I'm Too Tired And Old To Learn To Love, Leave Me Alone For Ever.

I Refused To Believe That Love Could Take Any Other Form Than Mine: I Measured Love By The Extent Of My Jealousy, And By That Standard Of Course She Could Not Love Me At All.

I Say That Home Is Where There Is A Chair And A Glass.

They Haven't Left Us Much To Believe, Have They? — Even Disbelief. I Can't Believe In Anything Bigger Than A Home, Or Anything Vaguer Than A Human Being.