He watched them with the passionate regret with which he saw them play football or go to dances: the activity itself did not interest, but the power to share it would have made him less apart.

Dear God I am tired. It is late. Writing like Shakespeare is hard work for a woman with a cracked head who cannot spell properly.

The world is only improved by people who do ordinary jobs and refuse to be bullied.

Imaginatively Glasgow exists as a music hall song and a few bad novels.

When a thing is perfect it is eternal. It can be destroyed afterward, or slowly decay, but its perfection is safe in the past, which is the only inevitable part of the universe.

But leaders need to be mostly dead. People want solid monuments to cling to, not confused men like themselves.

I don’t think anybody should read anything except for fun because you won’t learn anything unless you enjoy it.

I ought to have more love before I die. I’ve not had enough.

I’m afraid you’ll have to take up art. Art is the only work open to people who can’t get along with others and still want to be special.

Life becomes a habit. You get up, dress, eat, go tae work, clock in etcetera etcetera automatically, and think about nothing but the pay packet on Friday and the booze-up last Saturday. Life’s easy when you’re a robot.