Art Is A Kind Of Artificial Memory

You Cannot Have Both Truth And What You Call Civilisation.

The Bottomless Bitter Misery Of Childhood: How Little Even Now It Is Understood. Probably No Adult Misery Can Be Compared With A Child's Despair.

We Can Only Learn To Love By Loving.

Bereavement Is A Darkness Impenetrable To The Imagination Of The Unbereaved

Falling Out Of Love Is Chiefly A Matter Of Forgetting How Charming Someone Is.