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I Want Men To Admire Me, But That's A Trick You Learn At School--a Movement Of The Eyes, A Tone Of Voice, A Touch Of The Hand On The Shoulder Or The Head. If They Think You Admire Them, They Will Admire You Because Of Your Good Taste, And When They Admire You, You Have An Illusion For A Moment That There's Something To Admire.

-Graham Greene

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I Want Men To

Graham Greene

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I Want Men To Admire Me, But That's A Trick You Learn At School--a Movement Of The Eyes, A Tone Of Voice, A Touch Of The Hand On The Shoulder Or The Head. If They Think You Admire Them, They Will Admire You Because Of Your Good Taste, And When They Admire You, You Have An Illusion For A Moment That There's Something To Admire.

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We Can Love With Our Minds, But Can We Love Only With Our Minds? Love Extends Itself All The Time, So That We Can Love Even With Our Senseless Nails: We Love Even With Our Clothes, So That A Sleeve Can Feel A Sleeve.

Sometimes I Get So Tired Of Trying To Convince Him That I Love Him And Shall Love Him For Ever. He Pounces On My Words Like A Barrister And Twists Them. I Know He Is Afraid Of That Desert Which Would Be Around Him If Our Love Were To End, But He Can't Realise That I Feel Exactly The Same. What He Says Aloud, I Say To Myself Silently And Write It Here.

Our Heroes Are Simple: They Are Brave, They Tell The Truth, They Are Good Swordsmen And They Are Never In The Long Run Really Defeated. That Is Why No Later Books Satisfy Us Like Those Which Were Read To Us In Childhood - For Those Promised A World Of Great Simplicity Of Which We Knew The Rules, But The Later Books Are Complicated And Contradictory With Experience; They Are Formed Out Of Our Own Disappointing Memories.

There Is A Point Of No Return, Unremarked At The Time, In Most Lives.

One Gets Started, And Then, Suddenly, One Cannot Remember What Toothpaste They Use . . . The Moment Comes When A Character Does Or Says Something You Hadn't Thought About. At That Moment He's Alive And You Leave It To Him.

We Mustn't Complain Too Much Of Being Comedians - It's An Honorable Profession. If Only We Could Be Good Ones The World Might Gain At Least A Sense Of Style. We Have Failed - That's All. We Are Bad Comedians, We Aren't Bad Men.

How Often The Priest Had Heard The Same Confession--man Was So Limited: He Hadn't Even The Ingenuity To Invent A New Vice: The Animals Knew As Much. It Was For This World That Christ Had Died: The More Evil You Saw And Heard About You, The Greater The Glory Lay Around The Death; It Was Too Easy To Die For What Was Good Or Beautiful, For Home Or Children Or Civilization--it Needed A God To Die For The Half-hearted And The Corrupt.

If I Had To Choose Between Life In The Soviet Union And Life In The U. S. A. , I Would Certainly Choose The Soviet Union.

We'd Forgive Most Things If We Knew The Facts.

You Needn't Be So Scared. Love Doesn't End. Just Because We Don't See Each Other.

The Economy Of A Novelist Is A Little Like That Of A Careful Housewife Who Is Unwilling To Throw Away Anything That Might Perhaps Serve Its Turn.

Oh, She Doesn't Belong To Anybody Now,' He Said, And Suddenly I Saw Her For What She Was - A Piece Of Refuse Waiting To Be Cleared Away: If You Needed A Bit Of Hair You Could Take It, Or Trim Her Nails If Nail Trimmings Had Value To You. Like A Saint's Her Bones Could Be Divided Up - If Anybody Required Them. She Was Going To Be Burnt Soon, So Why Shouldn't Everybody Have What He Wanted First? What A Fool I Had Been During Three Years To Imagine That In Any Way I Had Possessed Her. We Are All Possessed By Nobody, Not Even By Ourselves.

You Cannot Conceive, Nor Can I, Of The Appalling Strangeness Of The Mercy Of God.

He Had Stylized Himself--life Was Easier That Way. He Had Chosen A Physical Mould Just As Writer Chooses A Technical Form.

It Seemed To Scobie That Life Was Immeasurably Long. Couldn’t The Test Of Man Have Been Carried Out In Fewer Years? Couldn’t We Have Committed Our First Major Sin At Seven, Have Ruined Ourselves For Love Or Hate At Ten, Have Clutched At Redemption On A Fifteen-year-old Deathbed?

God Is Love. I Don't Say The Heart Doesn't Feel A Taste Of It, But What A Taste. The Smallest Glass Of Love Mixed With A Pint Pot Of Ditch-water. We Wouldn't Recognize That Love. It Might Even Look Like Hate. It Would Be Enough To Scare Us - God's Love.

In A Mad World It Always Seems Simpler To Obey.

We Remember The Details Of Our Story, We Do Not Invent Them.

I Hate You, God. I Hate You As Though You Actually Exist.

Had Shakespeare Listened To The News Of Duncans Death In A Tavern Or Heard The Knocking On His Own Bedroom Door After He Had Finished The Writing Of Macbeth?

I Get Fed Up With All This Nonsense Of Ringing People Up And Lighting Cigarettes And Answering The Doorbell That Passes For Action In So Many Modern Plays.

Reality In Our Century Is Not Something To Be Faced.

Nobody Here Could Ever Talk About A Heaven On Earth. Heaven Remained Rigidly In Its Proper Place On The Other Side Of Death, And On This Side Flourished The Injustices, The Cruelties, The Meanness That Elsewhere People So Cleverly Hushed Up. Here You Could Love Human Beings Nearly As God Loved Them, Knowing The Worst: You Didn't Love A Pose, A Pretty Dress, A Sentiment Artfully Assumed.

There Was Always Another Side To A Joke, The Side Of The Victim.

I Had Very Good Dentures Once. Some Magnificent Gold Work. It's The Only Form Of Jewelry A Man Can Wear That Women Fully Appreciate.

Insecurity Twists Meanings And Poisons Trust. In A Closely Beleaguered City Every Sentry Is A Potential Traitor.

Cruel Men Cry Easily At The Cinema.

Men Have Prayed In Prison, Men Have Prayed In Slums And Concentration Camps. It's Only The Middle Class Who Demand To Pray In Suitable Surroundings.

One Never Knows Enough About Characters In Real Life To Put Them Into Novels. One Gets Started And Then, Suddenly, One Can Not Remember What Toothpaste They Use; What Are Their Views On Interior Decoration, And One Is Stuck Utterly. No, Major Characters Emerge; Minor Ones May Be Photographed.

A Man Kept His Character Even When He Was Insane.

I Never Knew A Man Who Had Better Motives For All The Trouble He Caused.

Never Presume Yours Is A Better Morality.

God Save Us Always,' I Said 'from The Innocent And The Good.

Its Typical Of Mexico, Of The Whole Human Race Perhaps Violence In Favour Of An Ideal And Then The Ideal Lost But The Violence Just Going On.

God Created A Number Of Possibilities In Case Some Of His Prototypes Failed - That Is The Meaning Of Evolution.

He Was Impregnably Armored By His Good Intentions And His Ignorance.

Good Intentions

Morality Comes With The Sad Wisdom Of Age, When The Sense Of Curiosity Has Withered.

You Cannot Control What You Love--you Watch It Driving Recklessly Towards The Broken Bridge, The Torn-up Track, The Horror Of Seventy Years Ahead.

The Subject Of A Novel Is Not The Plot. Who Remembers What Happened To Lucien De Rebempre In The End?

They Think My Mother's Ashes Are Marijuana.

Tea At College Was Served On Long Tables With An Urn At The End Of Each. Long Baguettes Of Bread, Three To A Table, Were Set Out With Meagre Portions Of Butter And Jam; The China Was Coarse To Withstand The Schoolboy-clutch And The Tea Strong. At The Hôtel De Paris I Was Astonished At The Fragility Of The Cups, The Silver Teapot, The Little Triangular Savoury Sandwiches, The éclairs Stuffed With Cream.

They Had Been Corrupted By Money, And He Had Been Corrupted By Sentiment. Sentiment Was The More Dangerous, Because You Couldn’t Name Its Price. A Man Open To Bribes Was To Be Relied Upon Below A Certain Figure, But Sentiment Might Uncoil In The Heart At A Name, A Photograph, Even A Smell Remembered.

Unhappiness In A Child Accumulates Because He Sees No End To The Dark Tunnel. The Thirteen Weeks Of A Term Might Just As Well Be Thirteen Years.

She Mixes Religion With Desertion To Make It Sound Noble.

As The End Of The What Is Called The 'sexual Life' The Only Love Which Has Lasted Is The Love Which Has Everything, Every Disappointment, Every Failure And Every Betrayal, Which Has Accepted Even The Sad Fact That In The End There Is No Desire So Deep As The Simple Desire For Companionship.

So Much Of A Novelist's Writing, As I Have Said, Takes Place In The Unconscious: In Those Depths The Last Word Is Written Before The First Word Appears On The Paper. We Remember Details Of Our Story, We Do Not Invent Them.

People Who Like Quotes Love Meaningless Generalizations

He's Satisfied With Himself. If You Have A Soul You Can't Be Satisfied.

All Good Novelists Have Bad Memories. What You Remember Comes Out As Journalism; What You Forget Goes Into The Compost Of The Imagination.

Hate Is A Lack Of Imagination.

Death Never Mattered At Those Times - In The Early Days I Even Used To Pray For It: The Shattering Annihilation That Would Prevent For Ever The Getting Up, The Putting On Of Clothes, The Wathchign Her Torch Trail Across To The Opposite Side Of The Common Like The Tail-light Of A Low Car Driving Away.

What Have We All Got To Expect That We Allow Ourselves To Be So Lined With Disappointment?

I’m Not At Peace Anymore. I Just Want Him Like I Used To In The Old Days. I Want To Be Eating Sandwiches With Him. I Want To Be Drinking With Him In A Bar. I’m Tired And I Don’t Want Anymore Pain. I Want Maurice. I Want Ordinary Corrupt Human Love. Dear God, You Know I Want To Want Your Pain, But I Don’t Want It Now. Take It Away For A While And Give It Me Another Time.

As Long As One Suffers One Lives.

I Know One Thing You Don't. I Know The Difference Between Right And Wrong. They Didn't Teach You That At School.' Rose Didn't Answer; The Woman Was Quite Right: The Two Words Meant Nothing To Her. Their Taste Was Extinguished By Stronger Foods--good And Evil.

Those Who Marry God Can Become Domesticated Too - It's Just As Hum-drum A Marriage As All The Others. The Word Love Means A Formal Touch Of The Lips As In The Ceremony Of The Mass, And Ave Maria Like Dearest Is A Phrase To Open A Letter. This Marriage Like The World's Marriages Was Held Together By Habits And Tastes Shared In Common Between God And Themselves - It Was God's Taste To Be Worshipped And Their Taste To Worship, But Only At Stated Hours Like A Suburban Embrace On A Saturday Night.

All The Emotions Have Something In Common. People Are Quite Aware Of The Sorrow There Always Is In Lust, But They Are Not So Aware Of The Lust There Is In Sorrow.

Who Knows Whether There May Not Be A Moment In Childhood When The World Changes Forever, Like Making A Face When The Clock Strikes?

I Could Have Waited Years, Now That I Knew The End Of The Story. I Was Cold And Wet And Very Happy. I Could Even Look With Charity Towards The Altar And The Figure Dangling There. She Loves Us Both, I Thought, But If There Is To Be A Conflict Between An Image And A Man, I Know Who Will Win. I Could Put My Hand On Her Thigh Or My Mouth On Her Breast; He Was Imprisoned Behind The Altar And Couldn't Move To Plead His Cause.

Thought's A Luxury. Do You Think The Peasant Sits And Thinks Of God And Democracy When He Gets Inside His Mud Hut At Night?

Perhaps The Comparison Is Closer To The Chinese Cook Who Leaves Hardly Any Part Of A Duck Unserved.

We Forget Very Easily What Gives Us Pain.

If I Stopped Loving Him, I Would Cease To Believe In His Love. If I Loved God, Then I Would Believe In His Love For Me. It's Not Enough To Need It. We Have To Love First, And I Don't Know How. But I Need It, How I Need It.

When He Was Young, He Had Thought Love Had Something To Do With Understanding, But With Age He Knew That No Human Being Understood Another. Love Was The Wish To Understand, And Presently With Constant Failure The Wish Died, And Love Died Too Perhaps Or Changed Into This Painful Affection, Loyalty, Pity.

I Measured Love By The Extent Of My Jealousy.

In Human Relationships, Kindness And Lies Are Worth A Thousand Truths.

I'm Only Saying I Want You To Be Happy. I Hate Your Being Unhappy. I Don't Mind Anything You Do That Makes You Happy." You Just Want An Excuse. If I Sleep With Anybody Else, You Feel You Can Do The Same - Any Time." That's Neither Here Nor There. I Want You To Be Happy, That's All." You'd Make My Bed For Me?" Perhaps.

It's A Strange Thing To Discover And To Believe That You Are Loved When You Know That There Is Nothing In You For Anybody But A Parent Or A God To Love.

He Felt The Loyalty We Feel To Unhappiness - The Sense That Is Where We Really Belong.

My Passion For Sarah Had Killed Simple Lust Forever. Never Again Would I Be Able To Enjoy A Woman Without Love.

Sooner Or Later... One Has To Take Sides. If One Is To Remain Human.

Sooner Or Later

Childhood Was The Germ Of All Mistrust. You Were Cruelly Joked Upon And Then You Cruelly Joked. You Lost The Remembrance Of Pain Through Inflicting It.

Christmas It Seems To Me Is A Necessary Festival; We Require A Season When We Can Regret All The Flaws In Our Human Relationships: It Is The Feast Of Failure, Sad But Consoling.

Any Man Who Knocks On The Door Of A Brothel Is Looking For God.

So Much In Writing Depends On The Superficiality Of One's Days. One May Be Preoccupied With Shopping And Income Tax Returns And Chance Conversations, But The Stream Of The Unconscious Continues To Flow Undisturbed, Solving Problems, Planning Ahead: One Sits Down Sterile And Dispirited At The Desk, And Suddenly The Words Come As Though From The Air: The Situations That Seemed Blocked In A Hopeless Impasse Move Forward: The Work Has Been Done While One Slept Or Shopped Or Talked With Friends.

It's Strange How The Human Mind Swings Back And Forth, From One Extreme To Another. Does Truth Lie At Some Point Of The Pendulum's Swing, At A Point Where It Never Rests, Not In The Dull Perpendicular Mean Where It Dangles In The End Like A Windless Flag, But At An Angle, Nearer One Extreme Than Another? If Only A Miracle Could Stop The Pendulum At An Angle Of Sixty Degrees, One Would Believe The Truth Was There.

O God, You've Done Enough, You've Robbed Me Of Enough, I'm Too Tired And Old To Learn To Love, Leave Me Alone For Ever.

You Cannot Love Without Intuition.

However Great A Man's Fear Of Life, Suicide Remains The Courageous Act, The Clear-headed Act Of A Mathematician. The Suicide Has Judged By The Laws Of Chance - So Many Odds Against One That To Live Will Be More Miserable Than To Die. His Sense Of Mathematics Is Greater Than His Sense Of Survival. But Think How A Sense Of Survival Must Clamor To Be Heard At The Last Moment, What Excuses It Must Present Of A Totally Unscientific Nature.

They Can Print Statistics And Count The Populations In Hundreds Of Thousands, But To Each Man A City Consists Of No More Than A Few Streets, A Few Houses, A Few People. Remove Those Few And A City Exists No Longer Except As A Pain In The Memory, Like A Pain Of An Amputated Leg No Longer There.

...and Yet Could Swear It Was Just Then That I Fell In Love. It Wasn't, Of Course, Simply The Onions -- It Was The Sudden Sense Of An Individual Woman, Of A Frankness That Was So Often Later To Make Me Happy And Miserable.

When You Visualized A Man Or A Woman Carefully, You Could Always Begin To Feel Pity . . . That Was A Quality God's Image Carried With It . . . When You Saw The Lines At The Corners Of The Eyes, The Shape Of The Mouth, How The Hair Grew, It Was Impossible To Hate. Hate Was Just A Failure Of Imagination.

I Aim To Be Content With What I Produce. It's An Aim I Never Achieve, But I Go Over My Work Word By Word, Time And Again, So As To Be As Little Dissatisfied As Possible.

A Major Character Has To Come Somehow Out Of The Unconscious.

Innocence Always Calls Mutely For Protection When We Would Be So Much Wiser To Guard Ourselves Against It: Innocence Is Like A Dumb Leper Who Has Lost His Bell, Wandering The World, Meaning No Harm.

Innocence Is A Kind Of Insanity

There Are Times When A Lover Longs To Be Also A Father And A Brother: He Is Jealous Of The Years He Hasn't Shared.

I Don't Care A Damn About Men Who Are Loyal To The People Who Pay Them, To Organizations...i Don't Think Even My Country Means All That Much. There Are Many Countries In Our Blood, Aren't There, But Only One Person. Would The World Be In The Mess It Is If We Were Loyal To Love And Not To Countries?

They Haven't Left Us Much To Believe, Have They? — Even Disbelief. I Can't Believe In Anything Bigger Than A Home, Or Anything Vaguer Than A Human Being.

A Writer Doesn't Write For His Readers, Does He? Yet He Has To Take Elementary Precautions All The Same, To Make Them Comfortable.

Hate Is An Automatic Response To Fear, For Fear Humiliates.

He Entered The Territory Of Lies Without A Passport For Return.

It Infuriated Him To Think That There Were Still People In The State Who Believed In A Loving And Merciful God. There Are Mystics Who Are Said To Have Experienced God Directly. He Was A Mystic, Too, And What He Had Experienced Was Vacancy--a Complete Certainty In The Existence Of A Dying, Cooling World, Of Human Beings Who Had Evolved From Animals For No Purpose At All.

This (vietnam) Was A Land Of Rebellious Barons. It Was Like Europe In The Middle Ages. But What Were The Americans Doing Here? Columbus Had Not Yet Discovered Their Country.

The Argument Of Danger Only Applies To Those Who Live In Relative Safety.

Insecurity Is The Worst Sense That Lovers Feel; Sometimes The Most Humdrum Desireless Marriage Seems Better. Insecurity Twists Meanings And Poisons Trust.

She Had Lost All Our Memories For Ever, And It Was As Though By Dying She Had Robbed Me Of Part Of Myself. I Was Losing My Individuality. It Was The First Stage Of My Own Death, The Memories Dropping Off Like Gangrened Limbs.

But I'm A Bad Priest, You See. I Know--from Experience--how Much Beauty Satan Carried Down With Him When He Fell. Nobody Ever Said The Fallen Angels Were The Ugly Ones. Oh, No, They Were Just As Quick And Light And . . .

Cynicism Is Cheap - You Can Buy It At Any Monoprix Store - It's Built Into All Poor-quality Goods.

It Is The Storytellers Task To Elicit Sympathy And A Measure Of Understanding For Those Who Lie Outside The Boundaries Of State Approval.

A Movie Is Not A Book. If The Source Material Is A Book, You Cannot Be Too Respectful Of The Book. All You Owe To The Book Is The Spirit.

Friendship Is Something In The Soul. It Is A Thing One Feels. It Is Not A Return For Something.

American Bankers Believe In The Personal Touch; The Teller Conveys A Sense That He Happens To Be There Accidentally And He Is Overjoyed At The Lucky Chance Of The Encounter.

Happiness Is Never Really So Welcome As Changelessness.

Doing Nothing, Badly.

I Have Often Noticed That A Bribe Has That Effect - It Changes A Relation. The Man Who Offers A Bribe Gives Away A Little Of His Own Importance; The Bribe Once Accepted, He Becomes The Inferior, Like A Man Who Has Paid For A Woman.

The Problem Of Pretending To Be Alive.

Communism, My Friend, Is More Than Marxism, Just As Catholicism Is More Than The Roman Curia. There Is A Mystique As Well As A Politick. Catholics And Communists Have Committed Great Crimes, But At Least They Have Not Stood Aside, Like An Established Society, And Been Indifferent. I Would Rather Have Blood On My Hands Than Water Like Pilate.

Against The Beautiful And The Clever And The Successful, One Can Wage A Pitiless War, But Not Against The Unattractive: Then The Millstone Weighs On The Breast.

That Instinct For Human Character That Is Perhaps Inherent In An Imaginative Writer.

Sweet Are The Thoughts That Savor Of Content: The Quiet Mind Is Richer Than A Crown.

Great Inspirational

In The End There Is No Desire So Deep As The Simple Desire For Companionship.

I Wrote At The Start That This Was A Record Of Hate, And Walking There Beside Henry Towards The Evening Glass Of Beer, I Found The One Prayer That Seemed To Serve The Winter Mood: O God, You've Done Enough, You've Robbed Me Of Enough, I'm Too Tired And Old To Learn To Love, Leave Me Alone Forever.

Thrillers Are Like Life, More Like Life Than You Are.

I Wish Sometimes You Had A Few Bad Motives, You Might Understand A Little More About Human Beings.

Our Worst Enemies Here Are Not The Ignorant And Simple, However Cruel; Our Worst Enemies Are The Intelligent And Corrupt

Writing Is A Form Of Therapy; Sometimes I Wonder How All Those Who Do Not Write, Compose Or Paint Can Manage To Escape The Madness, Melancholia, The Panic And Fear Which Is Inherent In A Human Situation.

A Ruling Passion Gives To A Shelf Of Novels The Unity Of A System.

I Had Committed Myself: Without Love I'd Have To Go Through The Gestures Of Love.

Despair Is The Price One Pays For Setting Himself An Impossible Aim.

Unforgivable Sin

With Your Great Schemes, You Ruin Our Happiness Like A Harvester Ruins A Mouse's Nest: I Hate You, God, I Hate You As Though You Existed.

In The Taxi I Let My Hand Lie On Her Leg Like A Promise, But I Had No Intention Of Keeping My Promise.

Champagne, If You Are Seeking The Truth, Is Better Than A Lie Detector. It Encourages A Man To Be Expansive, Even Reckless, While Lie Detectors Are Only A Challenge To Tell Lies Successfully.

At One With The One, It Didn't Mean A Thing Besides A Glass Of Guinness On A Sunny Day.

Oh, I’m Not A Berkeleian. I Believe My Back’s Against This Wall. I Believe There’s A Sten Gun Over There.

One Has No Talent. I Have No Talent. It's Just A Question Of Working, Of Being Willing To Put In The Time.

Pity Is Cruel. Pity Destroys.

She Was Not Too Young To Be Wise, But She Was Too Young To Know That Wisdom Shouldn't Be Spoken Aloud When You Are Happy.

I Couldn't Help Wondering, Is My Husband So Unattractive That No Woman Has Ever Wanted Him? Except Me, Of Course. I Must Have Wanted Him, In A Way, Once, But I've Forgotten Why, And I Was Too Young To Know What I Was Choosing.

When We Are Not Sure, We Are Alive.

When I Replied That I Loved Her Too In That Way, I Was The Liar, Not She, For I Never Lose The Consciousness Of Time: To Me The Present Is Never Here: It Is Always Last Year Or Next Week.

You Think It More Difficult To Turn Air Into Wine Than To Turn Wine Into Blood?.

It Is Always Of Interest To Know What Strikes Another Human Being As Remarkable.

Human Nature Is Not Black And White But Black And Grey.

Black And White

No Building Was Safe From The Furniture, The Pictures, The Human Beings That It Would Presently Contain.

Indifference And Pride Look Very Much Alike, And He Probably Thought I Was Proud.

He Was Like A Child With Haemophilia: Every Contact Drew Blood.

I Write About Situations That Are Common, Universal Might Be More Correct, In Which My Characters Are Involved And From Which Only Faith Can Redeem Them, Though Often The Actual Manner Of The Redemption Is Not Immediately Clear. They Sin, But There Is No Limit To God's Mercy And Because This Is Important, There Is A Difference Between Not Confessing In Fact, And The Complacent And The Pious May Not Realize It.

Men Can Become Twins With Age. The Past Was Their Common Womb; The Six Months Of Rain And The Six Months Of Sun Was The Period Of Their Common Gestation. They Needed Only A Few Words And A Few Gestures To Convey Their Meaning. They Had Graduated Through The Same Fevers, They Were Moved By The Same Love And Contempt.

We Are All Of Us Resigned To Death: It's Life We Aren't Resigned To.

Unfortunately The Innocent Are Always Involved In Any Conflict. Always, Everywhere, There Is Some Voice Crying From A Tower.

I Want Men To Admire Me, But That's A Trick You Learn At School--a Movement Of The Eyes, A Tone Of Voice, A Touch Of The Hand On The Shoulder Or The Head. If They Think You Admire Them, They Will Admire You Because Of Your Good Taste, And When They Admire You, You Have An Illusion For A Moment That There's Something To Admire.

Time Has Its Revenges, But Revenge Seems So Often Sour. Wouldn’t We All Do Better Not Trying To Understand, Accepting The Fact That No Human Being Will Ever Understand Another, Not A Wife With A Husband, Nor A Parent A Child? Perhaps That’s Why Men Have Invented God – A Being Capable Of Understanding.

You Don't Bless What You Love...it's When You Want To Love And You Can't Manage It. You Stretch Out Your Hands And You Say God Forgive Me That I Can't Love But Bless This Thing Anyway...we Have To Bless What We Hate...it Would Be Better To Love, But That's Not Always Possible.

You Must Promise Me. You Can't Desire The End Without Desiring The Means.' Ah, But One Can, He Thought, One Can: One Can Desire The Peace Of Victory Without Desiring The Ravaged Towns.

He Couldn't Tell That This Was One Of Those Occasions A Man Never Forgets: A Small Cicatrice Had Been Made On The Memory, A Wound That Would Ache Whenever Certain Things Combined - The Taste Of Gin At Mid-day, The Smell Of Flowers Under A Balcony, The Clang Of Corrugated Iron, An Ugly Bird Flopping From Perch To Perch.

Politics, War, Marriage, Crime, Adultery. Everything That Exists In The World Has Something To Do With Money.

There's A Virtue In Slowness, Which We Have Lost

It Is Impossible To Go Through Life Without Trust: That Is To Be Imprisoned In The Worst Cell Of All, Oneself.

Media Is Just A Word That Has Come To Mean Bad Journalism.

And When We Love Our Sin Then We Are Damned Indeed.

Champagne, If You Are Seeking The Truth, Is Better Than A Lie Detector.

For God's Sake Stop Making People In Your Image. Harry Was Real. He Wasn't Just Your Hero And My Lover. He Was Harry. He Was In A Racket. He Did Bad Things. What About It? He Was The Man We Knew.

Most Things Disappoint Till You Look Deeper.

My Fellow Journalists Called Themselves Correspondents; I Preferred The Title Of Reporter. I Wrote What I Saw. I Took No Action -- Even An Opinion Is A Kind Of Action.

I Couldn't Have Thought Of Her More. Even Vacancy Was Crowded With Her.

For An Artist To Think In Terms Of Success Is Like A Priest Trying To Think In Terms Of Success.

One's Life Is More Formed, I Sometimes Think, By Books Than By Human Beings: It Is Out Of Books One Learns About Love And Pain At Second Hand.

Hatred Seems To Work On The Same Glands As Love: It Even Produces The Same Actions. If We Had Not Been Taught How To Interpret The Story Of The Passion, Would We Have Been Able To Say From Their Actions Alone Whether It Was The Jealous Judas Or The Cowardly Peter Who Loved Christ?

Destruction After All Is A Form Of Creation.

Sentimentality - That's What We Call The Sentiment We Don't Share.

And There, In That Phrase, The Bitterness Leaks Again Out Of My Pen. What A Dull Lifeless Quality This Bitterness Is. If I Could I Would Write With Love, But If I Could Write With Love I Would Be Another Man; I Would Never Have Lost Love.

Ordinary Life Goes On--that Has Saved Many A Man's Reason.

There Is Always One Moment In Childhood When The Door Opens And Lets The Future In.

Hope Was An Instinct Only The Reasoning Human Mind Could Kill. An Animal Never Knew Despair.

A Single Feat Of Daring Can Alter The Whole Conception Of What Is Possible.

An Autobiography Is Only 'a Sort Of Life' - It May Contain Less Errors Of Fact Than A Biography, But It Is Of Necessity Even More Selective: It Begins Later And It Ends Prematurely.

People Change,' She Said 'oh, No They Don't. Look At Me. I've Never Changed. It's Like Those Sticks Of Rock: Bite It All The Way Down, You'll Still Read Brighton. That's Human Nature.

Melodrama Is One Of My Working Tools And It Enables Me To Obtain Effects That Would Be Unobtainable Otherwise; On The Other Hand I Am Not Deliberately Melodramatic; Don't Get Too Annoyed If I Say That I Write In The Way That I Do Because I Am What I Am.

My Two Fingers On A Typewriter Have Never Connected With My Brain. My Hand On A Pen Does. A Fountain Pen, Of Course. Ball-point Pens Are Only Good For Filling Out Forms On A Plane.

Innocence Is Like A Dumb Leper Who Has Lost His Bell, Wandering The World, Meaning No Harm.

As Long As Nothing Happens Anything Is Possible.

Anything Is Possible

...every Monologue Sooner Or Later Becomes A Discussion.

Sooner Or Later

I Envied Those Who Could Believe In A God And I Distrusted Them. I Felt They Were Keeping Their Courage Up With A Fable Of The Changeless And The Permanent. Death Was Far More Certain Than God, And With Death There Would Be No Longer The Possibility Of Love Dying.

Fun... Human Nature... Does No One Any Harm... Regular As Clockwork The Old Excuses Came Back Into The Alert, Sad And Dissatisfied Brain--nothing Ever Matched The Deep Excitement Of The Regular Desire. Men Always Failed You When It Came To The Act. She Might Just As Well Have Been To The Pictures.

For A Good Man Fame Is Always A Problem.

The Hands Of The Guilty Don't Necessarily Tremble; Only In Stories Does A Dropped Glass Betray Agitation. Tension Is More Often Shown In The Studied Action.

Her Face Looked Ugly In The Attempt To Avoid Tears; It Was An Ugliness Which Bound Him To Her More Than Any Beauty Could Have Done. It Isn't Being Happy Together, He Thought As Though It Were A Fresh Discovery, That Makes One Love--it's Being Unhappy Together.

One's Life Is More Formed, I Sometimes Think, By Books Than By Human Beings: It Is Out Of Books One Learns About Love And Pain At Second Hand. Even If We Have The Happy Chance To Fall In Love, It Is Because We Have Been Conditioned By What We Have Read, And If I Had Never Known Love At All, Perhaps It Was Because My Father's Library Had Not Contained The Right Books.

Falling In Love

If You Live In A Place For Long You Cease To Read About It.

The Sense Of Unhappiness Is So Much Easier To Convey Than That Of Happiness. In Misery We Seem Aware Of Our Own Existence, Even Though It May Be In The Form Of A Monstrous Egotism: This Pain Of Mine Is Individual, This Nerve That Winces Belongs To Me And To No Other. But Happiness Annihilates Us: We Lose Our Identity.

I Refused To Believe That Love Could Take Any Other Form Than Mine: I Measured Love By The Extent Of My Jealousy, And By That Standard Of Course She Could Not Love Me At All.

It Was As Though Our Love Were A Small Creature Caught In A Trap And Bleeding To Death: I Had To Shut My Eyes And Wring Its Neck.

Sometimes I See Myself Reflected Too Closely In Other Men For Comfort, And Then I Have An Enormous Wish To Believe In The Saints, In Heroic Virtue.

So It Always Is: When You Escape To A Desert The Silence Shouts In Your Ear.

Fame Is A Powerful Aphrodisiac.

Would The World Be In The Mess It Is If We Were Loyal To Love And Not To Countries?

Love Taught Me That Your Honour Did But Jest.

Lust Is Not The Worst Thing. It Is Because Any Day, Any Time, Lust May Turn Into Love That We Have To Avoid It. And When We Love Our Sin Then We Are Damned Indeed.

I've Caught Belief Like A Disease. I've Fallen Into Belief Like I Fell In Love.

Rocinante Was Of More Value For A True Traveller Than A Jet Plane. Jet Planes Were For Business Men.

Yesterday I Went Home With Him And We Did The Usual Things. I Haven't The Nerve To Put Them Down, But I'd Like To, Because Now When I'm Writing It's Already Tomorrow And I'm Afraid Of Getting To The End Of Yesterday. As Long As I Go On Writing, Yesterday Is Today And We Are Still Together

A Story Has No Beginning Or End: Arbitrarily One Chooses That Moment Of Experience From Which To Look Back Or From Which To Look Ahead.

A Petty Reason Perhaps Why Novelists More And More Try To Keep A Distance From Journalists Is That Novelists Are Trying To Write The Truth And Journalists Are Trying To Write Fiction.

I Have Never Understood Why People Who Can Swallow The Enormous Improbability Of A Personal God Boggle At A Personal Devil.

Of Two Hearts One Is Always Warm And One Is Always Cold: The Cold Heart Is More Precious Than Diamonds: The Warm Heart Has No Value And Is Thrown Away.

The Great Advantage Of Being A Writer Is That You Can Spy On People. You're There, Listening To Every Word, But Part Of You Is Observing. Everything Is Useful To A Writer, You See - Every Scrap, Even The Longest And Most Boring Of Luncheon Parties.

One Can't Love Humanity. One Can Only Love People.

If Only It Were Possible To Love Without Injury – Fidelity Isn’t Enough: I Had Been Faithful To Anne And Yet I Had Injured Her. The Hurt Is In The Act Of Possession: We Are Too Small In Mind And Body To Possess Another Person Without Pride Or To Be Possessed Without Humiliation. In A Way I Was Glad That My Wife Had Struck Out At Me Again – I Had Forgotten Her Pain For Too Long, And This Was The Only Kind Of Recompense I Could Give Her. Unfortunately The Innocent Are Always Involved In Any Conflict. Always, Everywhere, There Is Some Voice Crying From A Tower.

Self-expression Is A Hard And Selfish Thing. It Eats Everything, Even The Self. At The End You Find You Haven't Even Got A Self To Express.

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Hans-Georg Gadamer

Berenice Abbott

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