Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Dead men tell no tales, Mary.
A bad workman blames his tools.
All autobiography is self-indulgent.
Boredom is a pleasing antidote for fear
People who travel are always fugitives.
We're not meant for happiness, you and I.
Life and death do not wait for legal action.
Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.
Women want love to be a novel, men a short story.
Writers should be read, but neither seen nor heard.
And I don't like books which are full of name dropping.
Watch that boy. He's going to startle somebody someday.
A dreamer, I walked enchanted, and nothing held me back.
When she smiled it was as though she embraced the world.
I held out my arms to him and he came to me like a child.
You had to endure something yourself before it touched you.
It wouldn't make for sanity would it, living with the devil.
Will you look into my eyes and tell me that you love me now?
How simple life becomes when things like mirrors are forgotten.
There is no going back in life. There is no return. No second chance.
Nothing like a cup of tea to make a person feel better, man or woman.
Every moment was a precious thing, having in it the essence of finality.
I wondered why it was that places are so much lovelier when one is alone.
When one is writing a novel in the first person, one must be that person.
She knew that this was happiness, this was living as she had always wished to live.
The point is, life has to be endured, and lived. But how to live it is the problem.
I have no talent for making new friends, but oh such genius for fidelity to old ones.
Happiness is not a possession to be prized, it is a quality of thought, a state of mind.
I wish I was a woman of about thirty-six dressed in black satin with a string of pearls.
If there’s one thing that makes a man sick, it’s to have his ale poured out of an ugly hand.
Because I want to; because I must; because now and forever more this is where I belong to be.
No, Mary had no illusions about romance. Falling in love was a pretty name for it, that was all.
I could not ask forgiveness for something I had not done. As scapegoat, I could only bear the fault.
no person will ever get into my blood as a place can ... People and things pass away, but not places.
Life was a series of greetings and farewells, one was always saying good-bye to something, to someone.
From the very first, I knew that it would be so...I smiled to myself, and said, "That -- and none other.
I had build up false pictures in my mind and sat before them. I had never had the courage to demand the truth.
Why, he wondered, should he remember her suddenly, on such a day, watching the rain falling on the apple trees?
But luxury has never appealed to me, I like simple things, books, being alone, or with somebody who understands.
A familiar name on its own, however, does not carry its bearer far unless the talent is there, and the will to work.
All whispers and echoes from a past that is gone teem into the sleeper's brain, and he is with them, and part of them.
He stole horses' you'll say to yourself, 'and he didn't care for women; and but for my pride I'd have been with him now.
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.
People who mattered could not take the humdrum world. But this was not the world, it was enchantment; and all of it was mine.
Men are simpler than you imagine my sweet child. But what goes on in the twisted, tortuous minds of women would baffle anyone.
If you think I'm one of the people who try to be funny at breakfast you're wrong. I'm invariably illtempered in the early morning.
Living as we do in an age of noise and bluster, success is now measured accordingly. We must all be seen, and heard, and on the air.
Come and see us if you feel like it,' she said. 'I always expect people to ask themselves. Life is too short to send out invitations.
The trouble is, walking in Venice becomes compulsive once you start. Just over the next bridge, you say, and then the next one beckons.
Writing every book is like a purge; at the end of it one is empty ... like a dry shell on the beach, waiting for the tide to come in again.