“I loved Mr. Darcy far more than any of my own husbands.”

“Sometimes,' she said, remembering that morning, 'I write poems that are taller than I am”

“She made a creche outside the Inn. The natives thought it was wonderful, and Sister Honey was gratified by their numbers.Why have the devils with wings come to mock at the poor baby?' asked the children, pointing to the angels.The baby is the Number One Lord Jesus Christ,' Ayah told them.But he hasn't any clothes on! Aren't they going to give Him anything? Not a little red robe? Not a bit of melted butter?'This is His Mother,' said Ayah, showing them the little porcelain Virgin in blue and white and pink. 'He is her child.'That isn't true,' said the women, measuring the baby with their eyes. 'He's too big to be possible. Probably He's a dragon, an evil spirit in the shape of a child, and presently He'll eat up the woman.”

“Every piece of writing... starts from what I call a grit... a sight or sound, a sentence or a happening that does not pass away... but quite inexplicably lodges in the mind.”

“I have never understood why “hard work” is supposed to be pitiable. True, some work is soul destroying when it is done against the grain, but when it is part of “making” how can you grudge it? You get tired, of course, but the struggle, the challenge, the feeling of being extended as you never thought you could be is fulfilling and deeply, deeply satisfying.”

“On and off, all that hot French August, we made ourselves ill from eating the greengages. Joss and I felt guilty; we were still at the age when we thought being greedy was a childish fault and this gave our guilt a tinge of hopelessness because, up to then, we had believed that as we grew older our faults would disappear, and none of them did.”

“Harriet was silent, thinking, and then she said, "It is too hard to be a person. You don't only have to go on and on. You have to be--" she looked for the word she needed and could not find it. Then, "You have to be tall as well," said Harriet.”