Neanderthal man listened to stories, if one may judge by the shape of his skull.

It is never possible for a novelist to deny time inside the fabric of his novel: he must cling, however lightly, to the thread of his story, he must touch the interminable tapeworm, otherwise he becomes unintelligible, which, in his case, is a blunder.

He suddenly became shy and developed a conceited grin-the grin of the village yokel whose cricket score is mentioned before a stranger.

Tolerance is just a makeshift, suitable for an overcrowded and overheated planet. It carries on when love gives out, and love generally gives out as soon as we move away from our home and our friends.

Truth is a flower in whose neighbourhood others must wither.

In daily life we never understand each other, neither complete clairvoyance nor complete confessional exists.

In the novel we can know people perfectly, and, apart from the general pleasure of reading, we can find here a compensation for their dimness in life.

I suggest that the only books that influence us are those for which we are ready, and which have gone a little farther down our particular path than we have yet got ourselves.

Spoon-feeding in the long run teaches us nothing but the shape of the spoon.

I suggest that the only books that influence us are those for which we are ready, and which have gone a little farther down our particular path than we have yet got ourselves.