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“The bright hopes of youth had to be paid for at such a bitter price of disillusionment.”
― W. Somerset Maugham, Of Human Bondage

“Is it possible to fall in love over a dish of onions? It seems improbable, and yet I could swear it was just then that I fell in love. It wasn't, of course, simply the onions; it was that sudden sense of an individual woman, of a frankness that was so often later to make me happy and miserable.”
― Graham Greene, The End of the Affair

“His habit of reading isolated him: it became such a need that after being in company for some time he grew tired and restless ...”
― W. Somerset Maugham, Of Human Bondage

“Insensibly he formed the most delightful habit in the world, the habit of reading:


When you are reconciled to the fact that each is for himself in the world you will ask less from your fellows.


(Philip always pretended that he was not lame.)


She restored his belief in himself and put healing ointments, as it were, on all the bruises of his soul.


‘Why d’you read then?’ ‘Partly for pleasure, because it’s a habit and I’m just as uncomfortable if I don’t read as if I don’t smoke, and partly to know myself. When I read a book I seem to read it with my eyes only, but now and then I come across a passage, perhaps only a phrase, which has a meaning for ME, and it becomes part of me; I’ve got out of the book all that’s any use to me, and I can’t get anything more if I read it a dozen times. You see, it seems to me, one’s like a closed bud, and most of what one reads and does has no effect at all; but there are certain things that have a peculiar significance for one, and they open a petal; and the petals open one by one; and at last the flower is there.’


‘It would have interfered with my work,’ he told Philip. ‘What work?’ asked Philip brutally. ‘My inner life,’ he answered.


buffeted by the philistines.


the love of poetry was dead in England.(its dead everywhere write poem on that idea)



My motto is, leave me alone

He was thankful not to have to believe in God, for then such a condition of things would be intolerable; one could reconcile oneself to existence only because it was meaningless.
Then he saw that the normal was the rarest thing in the world.


(the whole world was like a sick-house, and there was no rhyme or reason in it)”
― W. Somerset Maugham, Of Human Bondage