You cannot love without intuition.
Lies had deserted me, and I felt as lonely as though they had been my only friends.
I've caught belief like a disease. I've fallen into belief like I fell in love.
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.
He was like a child with haemophilia: every contact drew blood.
So much of life [is] a putting-off of unhappiness for another time. Nothing [is] ever lost by delay.
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.
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.
So much in writing depends on the superficiality of one's days.
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.
It is the same in life: sometimes it is more difficult to make a scene than to die.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Perhaps the comparison is closer to the Chinese cook who leaves hardly any part of a duck unserved.
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.
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