Quotes from James Hilton

but now, thank heaven, he didn't care, and one of the lovely joys of growing old was to add to this list of trivial things one didn't care about, so that one had more time to care for the things that were not trivial.

If you'd had all the experiences I've had, you'd know that there are times in life when the most comfortable thing is to do nothing at all.

One of the lovely joys of growing old was to add to this list of trivial things one didn't care about, so that one had more time to care for things that were not trivial.

Their lack of interest is part of their lack of worry over the future, which is a natural thing—and in 1917 a good thing, too. For then at Brookfield there were boys who were to die within a year; and they were quite happy, playing rugger and conjugating verbs and reading the War news, only half aware that the last concerned them any more than the second, or as much as the first.

Goodbye, Mr. Chips!' was first submitted by James Hilton to the British Weekly in 1933, but it came to prominence when it was printed as the leading article of The Atlantic in April 1934.

Rutherford assented. "Yes, I liked him a good deal too, though I also saw surprisingly little of him, if you measure it in time." And then there was a somewhat odd silence, during which it was evident that we were both thinking of some one who had mattered to us far more than might have been judged from such casual contacts.

It is significant, he said after a pause, that the English regard slackness as a vice. We, on the other hand, should vastly prefer it to tension. Is there not too much tension in the world at present, and might it be better if more people were slackers?

He felt that it would not be fair to hang on if he could not decently do his job. Besides, he would not sever himself completely. He would take rooms across the road, with the excellent Mrs. Wickett who had once been linen-room maid; he could visit the School whenever he wanted, and could still, in a sense, remain a part of it.

But here, at Shangri–La, all was in deep calm. In a moonless sky the stars were lit to the full, and a pale blue sheen lay upon the dome of Karakal

People would say, I suppose, that he came through without a scratch. But the scratches were there—on the inside.

never did he adore anyone quite so purely as he adored the Candidate, or hate so fiercely as he hated the Other Candidate. And never afterwards did he tell such a downright thumping lie, nor was there a time ever again when right and wrong seemed to him so simply on this side and on that. A little boy then, and a man now if he had lived; he was killed on July 1st, 1916. When Chips read out his name in Brookfield Chapel that week, his voice broke and he could not go on.

If you forgive people enough you belong to them, and they to you, whether either person likes it or not squatter's rights of the heart