To let oneself be carried on passively is unthinkable.

My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing$$$ humming$$$ soaring roaring diving$$$ and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?

The most extraordinary thing about writing is that when you've struck the right vein$$$ tiredness goes. It must be an effort$$$ thinking wrong.

For it would seem - her case proved it - that we write$$$ not with the fingers$$$ but with the whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being$$$ threads the heart$$$ pierces the liver.

It's not that I don't trust you$$$ Dunstable$$$ it's simply that I don't trust you.

Say what you will$$$ there is something fine about our old aristocracy. I'll bet Trotsky couldn't hit a moving secretary with an egg on a dark night.

Gussie$$$ a glutton for punishment$$$ stared at himself in the mirror.

If he had a mind$$$ there was something on it.

It is a good rule in life never to apologize. The right sort of people do not want apologies$$$ and the wrong sort take a mean advantage of them.

Mike nodded. A sombre nod. The nod Napoleon might have given if somebody had met him in 1812 and said$$$ "So$$$ you're back from Moscow$$$ eh?"