Quotes About Christopher Fry

He picked on his rags and his bones as love Picks upon hearts, he with an eye to profit And love with an eye to pain.

It really is Beyond the limit of respectable superstition To confuse my voice with a peacock's.

You may be decay and a platitude Of flesh, but I have no other such memory of life.

Dear boy, I only want to be hanged. What possible objection can he have to that?