A writer doesn't write for his readers, does he? Yet he has to take elementary precautions all the same, to make them comfortable.
Lies had deserted me, and I felt as lonely as though they had been my only friends.
You think it more difficult to turn air into wine than to turn wine into blood?.
A major character has to come somehow out of the unconscious.
With Your great schemes, You ruin our happiness like a harvester ruins a mouse's nest: I hate You, God, I hate You as though You existed.
One's life is more formed, I sometimes think, by books than by human beings: it is out of books one learns about love and pain at second hand.
And when we love our sin then we are damned indeed.
What have we all got to expect that we allow ourselves to be so lined with disappointment?
My passion for Sarah had killed simple lust forever. Never again would I be able to enjoy a woman without love.
My fellow journalists called themselves correspondents; I preferred the title of reporter. I wrote what I saw. I took no action -- even an opinion is a kind of action.
I could never have been a pacifist. To kill a man was surely to grant him an immeasurable benefit. Oh yes, people always, everywhere, loved their enemies. It was their friends they preserved for pain and vacuity.
I've caught belief like a disease. I've fallen into belief like I fell in love.
So much in writing depends on the superficiality of one's days.
A movie is not a book. If the source material is a book, you cannot be too respectful of the book. All you owe to the book is the spirit.
Who knows whether there may not be a moment in childhood when the world changes forever, like making a face when the clock strikes?
Cruel men cry easily at the cinema.
Love taught me that your honour did but jest.
He felt the loyalty we feel to unhappiness - the sense that is where we really belong.
So much of life [is] a putting-off of unhappiness for another time. Nothing [is] ever lost by delay.
I know one thing you don't. I know the difference between Right and Wrong. They didn't teach you that at school.' Rose didn't answer; the woman was quite right: the two words meant nothing to her. Their taste was extinguished by stronger foods--Good and Evil.
I’m not at peace anymore. I just want him like I used to in the old days. I want to be eating sandwiches with him. I want to be drinking with him in a bar. I’m tired and I don’t want anymore pain. I want Maurice. I want ordinary corrupt human love. Dear God, you know I want to want Your pain, but I don’t want it now. Take it away for a while and give it me another time.
I couldn't have thought of her more. Even vacancy was crowded with her.
Like some wines our love could neither mature nor travel.
Sentimentality - that's what we call the sentiment we don't share.
Rocinante was of more value for a true traveller than a jet plane. Jet planes were for business men.
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