Home: it was a phrase one used to mean four walls behind which one slept. There had never been a home.
For peace you needed human company-his aloneness was like a threat of things to come.
There is always one moment in childhood when the door opens and lets the future in.
Evil ran like malaria in his veins.
It didn’t matter so much after all: a little additional pain was hardly noticeable in the huge abandonment.
When a man wakes after a dangerous operation he puts a special value upon the first face he sees as the anaesthetic wears away.
A virtuous man can almost cease to believe in Hell: but he carried Hell about with him.
Pride wavered in his voice like a plant with shallow roots.
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.