I will not let thee go, except thou bless me.

All sorrows can be borne if you can put them into a story.

Our longing is our pledge, and blessed are the homesick, for they shall come home.

In the Ngong Forest I have also seen, on a narrow path through thick growth, in the middle of a very hot day, the Giant Forest Hog, a rare person to meet.

I do not think that I could ever really love a woman who had not, at one time or another, been up on a broomstick.

In the mind and nature of a man a secret is an ugly thing, like a hidden physical defect.

The cure for anything is salt water -- sweat, tears, or the sea.

Difficult times have helped me to understand better than before, how infinitely rich and beautiful life is in every way, and that so many things that one goes worrying about are of no importance whatsoever.

Man reaches the highest point of lovableness at 12 to 17 -- to get it back, in a second flowering, at the age of 70 to 90.

It is when people are told their own thoughts that they think they are being insulted.

The cure for anything is salt water: tears, sweat, or the sea.

I had seen a herd of Elephant travelling through dense native forest ... pacing along as if they had an appointment at the end of the world.

God made the world round so we would never be able to see too far down the road.

All the sorrows of life are bearable if only
we can convert them into a story.

Through the loveliness and power of her dream world she was now, in her old frock and botched shoes, very likely the loveliest, mightiest and most dangerous person on earth.

Where the storyteller is loyal, eternally and unswervingly loyal to the story, there, in the end, silence will speak. Where the story has been betrayed, silence is but emptiness. But we, the faithful, when we have spoken our last word, will hear the voice of silence.

And were my faith so strong that it could move mountains, that is the mountain that I would make come to me.

The cure for anything is saltwater-- sweat, tears, or the sea.

The lime trees were in bloom. But in the early morning only a faint fragrance drifted through the garden, an airy message, an aromatic echo of the dreams during the short summer night.

Real art must always involve some witchcraft.