The Tragedy Of Love Is Indifference.

The Trouble With Young Writers Is That They Are All In Their Sixties.

If You Want To Eat Well In England, Eat Three Breakfasts.

Everyone Had Some Defect, Or Body Or Of Mind: He Thought Of All The People He Had Known (the Whole World Was Like A Sick House And There Was No Rhyme Or Reason In It), He Saw A Long Procession, Deformed In Body, Warped In Mind, Some With Illness Of The Flesh, Weak Hearts Or Weak Lungs, And Some With Illness Of The Spirit, Languor Of Will, Or Craving For Liquor. At That Moment He Felt A Holy Compassion For Them All. …the Words Of The Dying God Crossed His Memory: Forgive Them, For They Know Not What They Do.

The Novel May Stimulate You To Think. It May Satisfy Your Aesthetic Sense. It May Arouse Your Moral Emotions. But If It Does Not Entertain You It Is A Bad Novel.

The Important Thing Was To Love Rather Than To Be Loved.