“I do, however, think it would be difficult to write books I don’t like to read.”

Giving other people advice is one of the most irritating and useless activities known to man.

His masculinity was only too apparent

I am so tired of ruggedly handsome heroes. I don’t know too many ruggedly handsome people who are necessarily nice people. In fact, the beautiful people have a big handicap because they rely too much on their appearance and don’t bother to become interesting.

Many persons lead lives of crushing boredom.

It may take us a little longer to reach the summit, but never fear, we will get there!

Another dead body. Every year it is the same. Every year, another dead body.

Since I am not as stupid as my children believe I am, I had immediately realized this might be a ruse, but I was not at all averse to a confrontation. In fact, I had been hoping for some such thing.

But the dust! And the clutter! My housewifely and scholarly instincts were equally offended.

I don’t think she realized how much she cared for him, or he for her, until the end. Hasn’t someone said a woman may be known by the men who love her enough to die for her? (If they haven’t, I claim the credit myself.)

That’s maturity-when you realize that you’ve finally arrived at a state of ignorance as profound as your parents.

When emotion supersedes reason … gullibility must follow.

Martyrdom is often the result of excessive gullibility.

Sometimes the characters develop almost without your knowing it. You find them doing things you hadn’t planned on, and then I have to go back to page 42 and fix things. I’m not recommending it as a way to write. It’s very sloppy, but it works for me.

I had refused Emerson’s well-meant offers of assistance, knowing his efforts would be confined to moving the furniture to the wrong places and demanding how much longer the process would take.

I sometimes wonder what it would be like to be the respected patriarch of an ordinary English family.” “Very boring, Emerson.

He hesitated for a moment. Then he said softly, “I love you, Mother.” He took my hand and kissed it, and folded my fingers round the stem of the rose. He had stripped it of its thorns.