Quotes from Dodie Smith

Sacrifice is the secret — you have to sacrifice things for art and it's the same with religion; and then the sacrifice turns out to be a gain." Then I got confused and I couldn't hold on to what I meant — until Miss Blossom remarked: "Nonsense, duckie — it's perfectly simple. You lose yourself in something beyond yourself and it's a lovely rest.

There's nothing more, except that I usually sit down until the flames die down and try to think myself back into the past.

I'm wondering. Shall we say its perfect for the sea and the sunlight - and the other Rose is perfect for candlelight? And perhaps what's most perfect of all is to find there are several Roses?

Incidentally, I never felt less brisk in my life, because being looked at like that makes a person feel dizzy.

People's clothes ought to be buried with them.

Now, paper and pencils, said Miss Marcy, clapping her hands. Writing paper is scarce in this house, and I had no intention of tearing sheets out of this exercise book, which is a superb sixpenny one the Vicar gave me. In the end, Miss Marcy took the middle pages out of her library record, which gave us a pleasant feeling that we were stealing from the government, and then we sat round the table and elected her chairman.

I glanced through another page in case I had missed something, and came to the description of Simon's face as he lay on the grass with his eyes closed. It gave me a stab in which happiness and misery were somehow a part of each other.

I had found out in that glittering corridor off the ballroom that being with him could be more painful than being away from him.

It was so nice that Simon was here for it - tell him I enjoyed every minute - ' it was glorious writing that - almost like telling him I was glad he'd kissed me. But after I'd posted the letter I was worried in case he guessed what I'd meant.

I still didn't believe him. And for the moment, I didn't much care one way or the other. My whole mind had swung back to Simon.

I don't like the sound of all those lists he's making – it's like taking too many notes at school; you feel you've achieved something when you haven't.

As she only cries about once a year I really ought to have gone over and comforted her, but I wanted to set it all down here. I begin to see that writers are liable to become callous.

I love you, I love you, I love you. ~Cassandra

Another great luxury is letting myself cry - I always feel marvellously peaceful after that. But it is difficult to arrange times for it, as my face takes so long to recover; it isn't safe in the mornings if I am to look normal when I meeter father at lunch, and the afternoons are no better, as Thomas is home by five. It would be all right in bed at night but such a waste, as that is my happiest time. Days when father goes over to read in the Scoatney library are good crying days.

The way one's mind can dash about just while one opens a window.

I could see he was nervous; at least, I thought I could, but then it struck me how little I know of him, or of Topaz or Rose or anyone in the world, really, except myself.

The vague expression was gone from his eyes - I had a feeling it was gone forever.

I didn't make any mistake. I know that when he nearly asked me to marry him it was only on impulse It is part if a follow-my-leader game of second-best we have all been playing - Rose with Simon, Simon with me, me with Stephen and Stephen, I suppose, with that detestable Leda Fox-Cotton. It isn't a very good game; the people you play it with are apt to get hurt.

Oh my dear, dear Stephen, how can I ever repay you for such unselfishness? But the happiness you hoped to win for me will never be mine.

What is this insurmountable barrier round him? What's it made of? Where did it come from?

What I'd really hate would be the settled feeling, with nothing but happiness to look forward to.

You're the kind of child who might develop a passion for Bach. I told him I hadn't at school. The one Bach piece I learnt made me feel I was being repeatedly hit on the head with a teaspoon.

They said this flat was converted but I think its still heathen

And suddenly all the puppies were her puppies; she was their mother—just as Pongo had felt he was their father.