Except for the sound of the rain, on the road, on the roofs, on the umbrella, there was absolute silence: only the dying moan of the sirens continued for a moment or two to vibrate within the ear. It seemed to Scobie later that this was the ultimate border he had reached in happiness: being in darkness, alone, with the rain falling, without love or pity.
Who knows whether there may not be a moment in childhood when the world changes forever, like making a face when the clock strikes?
Love taught me that your honour did but jest.
A major character has to come somehow out of the unconscious.
My passion for Sarah had killed simple lust forever. Never again would I be able to enjoy a woman without love.
He was like a child with haemophilia: every contact drew blood.
So much in writing depends on the superficiality of one's days.
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.
It is the same in life: sometimes it is more difficult to make a scene than to die.
Our heroes are simple: they are brave, they tell the truth, they are good swordsmen and they are never in the long run really defeated. That is why no later books satisfy us like those which were read to us in childhood - for those promised a world of great simplicity of which we knew the rules, but the later books are complicated and contradictory with experience; they are formed out of our own disappointing memories.
What have we all got to expect that we allow ourselves to be so lined with disappointment?
So much of life [is] a putting-off of unhappiness for another time. Nothing [is] ever lost by delay.
I couldn't have thought of her more. Even vacancy was crowded with her.
A writer doesn't write for his readers, does he? Yet he has to take elementary precautions all the same, to make them comfortable.
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.
Hatred seems to work on the same glands as love: it even produces the same actions. If we had not been taught how to interpret the story of the Passion, would we have been able to say from their actions alone whether it was the jealous Judas or the cowardly Peter who loved Christ?
I wish sometimes you had a few bad motives, you might understand a little more about human beings.
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.
Perhaps the comparison is closer to the Chinese cook who leaves hardly any part of a duck unserved.
When I began to write our story down, I thought I was writing a record of hate, but somehow the hate has got mislaid and all I know is that in spite of her mistakes and her unreliability, she was better than most. It's just as well that one of us should believe in her: she never did in herself.
A murderer is regarded by the conventional world as something almost monstrous, but a murderer to himself is only an ordinary man. It is only if the murderer is a good man that he can be regarded as monstrous.
Rocinante was of more value for a true traveller than a jet plane. Jet planes were for business men.
I get fed up with all this nonsense of ringing people up and lighting cigarettes and answering the doorbell that passes for action in so many modern plays.
Oh, she doesn't belong to anybody now,' he said, and suddenly I saw her for what she was - a piece of refuse waiting to be cleared away: if you needed a bit of hair you could take it, or trim her nails if nail trimmings had value to you. Like a saint's her bones could be divided up - if anybody required them. She was going to be burnt soon, so why shouldn't everybody have what he wanted first? What a fool I had been during three years to imagine that in any way I had possessed her. We are all possessed by nobody, not even by ourselves.
Thrillers are like life, more like life than you are.
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