Only in a house where one has learnt to be lonely does one have this solicitude for things. Ones relation to them, the daily seeing or touching, begins to become love, and to lay one open to pain. – Elizabeth Bowen
There is no end to the violations committed by children on children, quietly talking alone. – Elizabeth Bowen
Good-byes breed a sort of distaste for whomever you say good-bye to; this hurts, you feel, this must not happen again. – Elizabeth Bowen
The charm, one might say the genius of memory, is that it is choosy, chancy, and temperamental: it rejects the edifying cathedral and indelibly photographs the small boy outside, chewing a hunk of melon in the dust. – Elizabeth Bowen