Dodie Smith

Perhaps it is too simplistic to say that some people are drawn to the sea and others to the hills, but I do think that an affinity for one or the other often manifests itself at an early age.

I found myself staring at the dim rooftops opposite, thinking that all the bewilderment of the world would be simplified if one knew that there was a person somewhere who understood.

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.

The night didn't want to die. It hung on, as though the rising sun were a mirage that might fade out at any moment.

Nothing's as cast-iron as it's thought to be. Life's just a series of rustic footbridges that need never be crossed.

Poetry's always astonished me, how you can say so much in a dozen lines.

You can’t see round corners, so to speak, but there must be something beyond them because they go round them, otherwise it wouldn’t be a corner.

What happens to me when I'm provoked is that I get tongue-tied.

It might sound strange to be in love with a house, but how can a house be anything but dead? The people who live in it make it a home.

There was nothing to do now but lie down, listen to the rain and imagine myself swimming in the sea, which was unusually rough and called ‘disgusting’ by Aunt Cassandra.

It was amazing in the forest, not a boggy bit in it, though there was enough rain to float an ark.

I feel just the same about poetry as Father feels about natural history. In his book, life can only be changed, never ended. His sparrows always find crumbs and the damsels married to mad baronets never cause trouble.