. . . at this season, the blossom is out in full now, there in the west early. It’s a plum tree, it looks like apple blossom but it’s white, and looking at it, instead...

You just don’t know writers. They’ll use anything, anybody. They’ll eat their young.

The trouble with words is that you never know whose mouths they’ve been in.

We tend to forget that life can only be defined in the present tense.