If there is one thing left that I would like to do, it's to write something really beautiful. And I could do it, you know. I could still do it.

I have always been delighted at the prospect of a new day, a fresh try, one more start, with perhaps a bit of magic waiting somewhere behind the morning.

If you are a genius, you'll make your own rules, but if not - and the odds are against it - go to your desk no matter what your mood, face the icy challenge of the paper - write.

We must beware the revenge of the starved senses, the embittered animal in its prison.

Our dourest parsons, who followed the nonconformist fashion of long extemporary prayers, always seemed to me to be bent on bullying God.

Those no-sooner-have-I-touched-the-pillow people are past my comprehension. There is something bovine about them.