At 50, everyone has the face he deserves.

This work was strictly voluntary, but any animal who absented himself from it would have his rations reduced by half.

Gordon eyed them with inert hatred. At this moment he hated all books, and novels most of all. Horrible to think of all that soggy, half-baked trash massed together in one place.

So long as human beings stay human, death and life are the same thing.

Windmill or no windmill, he said, life would go on as it had always gone on--that is, badly.

Beyond the late Fifties everything faded. When there were no external records that you could refer to, even the outline of your own life lost its sharpness. You remembered huge events which had quite probably not happened, you remembered the details of incidents without being able to recapture their atmosphere, and there were long blank periods to which you could assign nothing. Everything had been different then.

What can the England of 1940 have in common with the England of 1840? But then, what have you in common with the child of five whose photograph your mother keeps on the mantelpiece? Nothing, except that you happen to be the same person.

Ama okuduktan sonra, aklını kaçırmış olmadığını eskiden daha iyi anlamıştı. İnsanın azınlıkta olması, tek kişilik bir azınlık olması bile, deli olduğu anlamına gelmiyordu. Bir doğru vardı, bir de doğru olmayan; doğruya sarıldığın zaman, tüm dünyayı karşına bile alsan, deli olmuyordun.

His eye fell upon the aspidistra. Two years he had inhabited this vile room; two mortal years in which nothing had been accomplished.