I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden, too, whatever the poets may say.

Writers should be read, but neither seen nor heard.

The road to Manderley lay ahead. There was no moon. The sky above our heads was inky black. But the sky on the horizon was not dark at all. It was shot with crimson, like a splash of blood. And the ashes blew towards us with the salt wind from the sea.

Boredom is a pleasing antidote for fear

I have no talent for making new friends, but oh such genius for fidelity to old ones.