Life

The one great art is that of making a complete human being of oneself.

A bitter awareness that everything is a sensation of mine and at the same time something external, something not in my power to change. Ah, how often my own dreams have raised up before me as things, not to replace reality but to declare themselves its equal.

The world is full of tragedy; and sympathy, a little common sympathy, can do so much to soften the worst of grief. It is for the lack of that, that people despair and go down.

Writing to me is like being addicted to heroin… it’s hard and its mean, but you just can’t stop.

It must be every barrister's nightmare, something that finds him or her unprepared.

One day I had nothing but my childhood to defend myself……….

People and things would continue to exist in a world where I did not, and no one would ever think of me. And, if that was the case, then what was the point of existing in the first place?

Go and wake up your cook.

Don't be ridiculous. Brussels sprouts are awful. Jail is just jail.

Writing evinces the soul of an active mind and every era produced persons whom devoted their being to exploring the mysteries of life, seeking to discern answers pertaining how to resolve the complexities and paradoxes of life.

They can march for days without eating. They impregnate every schoolgirl they meet.

I have brushed my teeth.This day and I are even.

Merciful God!' sighed the General. 'We've arrived.' And it was true. For there was the sea, and on the other side of the sea was the world.

We thought we'd seen it all. The real horror of war is always waiting for you at home. It's waiting, I tell you. We were so damned happy when we got back. We'd made it. We survived. But it's always waiting. Waiting. You let down your guard. And there it is. You can't ever let up. Give up.

Who cares what we dream about? Just getting through each day is hard enough.

A hospital bed is a parked taxi with the meter running.

Humans were peculiar. They were by turns squeamish and appallingly violent.

I'm a giant pimple on the face of humanity.

Within weeks of my arrival in New York, I was someone else, not because there had been a revolution in my psychological makeup or any trauma. It was simply this: people saw me in a light in which I had never been seen before.

Not forever does the bulbul singIn balmy shades of bowers,Not forever lasts the springNor ever blossom the flowers.Not forever reigneth joy,Sets the sun on days of bliss,Friendships not forever last,They know not life, who know not this.