Short Fiction quotes

She did not know this, of course; at six years old it is difficult to reason about strange noises, or about anything that happens in the middle of the night.

Half-past nine was the same as midnight to Bridget.

For a few minutes she lay awake wondering what it was that had woken her. She no longer felt tired or sleepy, her mind was alert, and every nerve was on edge. Then she opened her eyes and looked around her.

And inside—inside where Nanny’s clothes hung in the daytime, her coat, her mackintosh, her grey costume—were three shadowy figures, silent and mysterious.

Three mocking priests, with gaunt, dark bodies, and no faces.

Bridget knew they were watching her; they were waiting for her to move, when they would creep from their hiding-place, creep with soft, terrible steps towards her bed, and lift great white hands with thin, hollow fingers.

She waited, waited for some sound to warn her, some sign to tell her that they were coming to her—but nothing happened. This was worse, this sudden absence of any sound, this dead still quiet.

She listened⁠—she could hear Silence.

A faint humming sound in her ears, then gradually it buzzed louder, until it became a roar like a mighty wind. She opened her eyes again, and saw that the square dressing-table had turned into a square, hunchbacked animal, with thin, queer-shaped legs.

Bridget swallowed—the sound of it seemed to echo through the room, but she could not help herself, she had to swallow again. Her throat was dry—she tasted dust. Everything in the room now took a special shape.

The fireplace was a yawning cave; the table a gigantic toad; the chairs were stunted dwarfs.

If only Nanny would come up; if only she could get out of this terrible room into the kind, warm Day Nursery, flooded with electric light.

The floor became thick with bodies of dead cats—she had seen one in a gutter once—grey, furry cats; and mice, thousands of headless mice …

Bridget began to cry, and the sound of her crying frightened her.

The Things had heard; they were all coming near her. The priests bowed, the witches waved, the animals crept quietly, quietly …

The door closed behind her, and there was a sound of retreating footsteps.

For a moment the child was too amazed to think. Then came realisation⁠—she was alone.

Long shadows crept across the floor …

He loved to slam the front door behind him, and to walk along the street to a bus, swinging a stick.

There was something about the feeling of being alone he could not explain to anyone, not even to her.

The delicious sense of utter irresponsibility, of complete selfishness. Not to have to look at his watch and remember, “I promised to be back at four,” but at four to be doing something quite different that she would not know. The feeblest thing.

He loved to slam the front door behind him, and to walk along the street to a bus, swinging a stick. There was something about the feeling of being alone he could not explain to anyone, not even to her.

The delicious sense of utter irresponsibility, of complete selfishness.

Not to have to look at his watch and remember, “I promised to be back at four,” but at four to be doing something quite different that she would not know. The feeblest thing. Even driving in a taxi she had never seen;

It wasn’t that, of course; it wasn’t that at all. Naturally, he loved her more than anyone in the world; in fact, there literally did not exist anyone but her. Why did she not realise this and be thankful?

Why must she chain him to her, his mind, his body, his soul, without allowing the smallest part in him to stray, even for a little distance?

She should understand that he would never go far, he would never go out of her sight—metaphorically; but surely just to the top of that hill, to see what was on the other side. No, even this she must share with him.

I want to give everything to you. If I am alone and I see a picture that I love, or I read some passage from a book, I think to myself there is no meaning in this unless he knows it too.

You are such a part of me that to stand alone leaves me dumb, without speech, without eyes.

A tree with hatched branches, like someone with no hands. Life is valueless unless I can share everything with you—beauty, ugliness, pain. There must be no shadows between us, no quiet corners in our hearts.”

You are such a part of me that to stand alone leaves me dumb, without speech, without eyes. A tree with hatched branches, like someone with no hands.

Life is valueless unless I can share everything with you⁠—beauty, ugliness, pain.

There must be no shadows between us, no quiet corners in our hearts.”

You are such a part of me that to stand alone leaves me dumb, without speech, without eyes. A tree with hatched branches, like someone with no hands. Life is valueless unless I can share everything with you—beauty, ugliness, pain.

There must be no shadows between us, no quiet corners in our hearts.

”

Funny!—yes, he saw what she meant, but he could not feel like this. They were on different planes.

In the universe they were two stars, she far higher, burning with a steady light, but he flickering, unsteadily, always a little ahead⁠—and in the end falling to earth, a momentary streak in the sky.

He turned to her abruptly.

Why was he never frank with her? Why not admit that he was no longer content to be with her, but must go out and seek any sort of distraction? It was his reticence that hurt her, his refusal to speak the truth.

Like a wounded animal she spread out her claws to protect herself.

“You enjoy his company so much, when you have only known him for three weeks?” Her voice was hard and metallic.

“I’ve told you I don’t want to offend him. It’s a bit thick; there’s always this same old argument whenever I go out. Good God, it’s only for a few hours! If you had your way you’d leave me without a friend in the world.

You seem to be jealous if I speak to a dog.

”

Perhaps you’ve forgotten that last Monday you promised this sort of thing would never happen again. I realise now that I can’t depend on you at all. I’ve been making rather a fool of myself over you, haven’t I? Well, aren’t you going?”

Her eyes were cold. She had wrapped herself in a sheet of armour.

He turned his back and looked out of the window.

“It’s pleasant, isn’t it, living like this? Makes such an attractive atmosphere in the house. Scarcely a day passes without some sort of discussion, does it?” He rocked backwards and forwards on his heels, whistling a tune.

He knew that every word tore at her like a knife.

He was pleased. He wanted to hurt her. He didn’t care. She sat quite still, pretending to do accounts on a piece of paper. Calmly, dispassionately, she wondered why she loved him.

If he would only realise that the smallest touch of recognition from him, the faintest sign that he would give up something unimportant for her sake, would send a flood of warmth to her heart. He did nothing.

She felt herself drawing farther away from him, a lonely figure in an imaginary train. A grey shadow in a world of shadows.

There was no one even to wave goodbye.

He watched her out of the tail of his eye.

Why must she always parade her suffering before him?

Not openly, not something that he could get hold of and flaunt in her face, but quietly, with the resignation of a martyr. A tear ran down her cheek and fell on to the blotting-paper. Oh! hell—he wasn’t going to stand for it.

She would fight for his life, but she would lose. It would be too late. He could see her planting violets on his grave, a solitary figure in a grey cloak. What a ghastly tragedy. A lump came into his throat.

He became quite emotional thinking of his own death. He would have to write a poem about this.

From behind the curtains she watched him walk to the end of the street. She was sure he had forgotten her already. She felt she did not care what he did any more. It was all over.

From behind the curtains she watched him walk to the end of the street. She was sure he had forgotten her already. She felt she did not care what he did any more. It was all over.

She rang the bell and began to scold the maid for no reason.

He hated the lunch, the man was a bore—he couldn’t even listen to what he was saying. He felt ill, too. His wish was probably coming true, and he was catching pneumonia. What a Godforsaken fool he was to have come.

He left the room, and went out of the house. The door slammed behind him.

“But that’s not what I meant,” he thought, “that’s not what I meant at all.”

“

Something has happened to the world. People have become brutal, callous.

No one is ready to lend a helping hand. If I were like the rest of them, hard, indifferent, thick-skinned—God, if I could only change my temperament. But I’m so appallingly sensitive—and it’s incurable, there’s nothing to be done.

He drank his coffee slowly, thoughtfully. It occurred to me that he was acting a little, that he was watching himself as it were, with me, and creating for his own benefit a shadow on a wall.

Yet he seemed unconscious of this, and I decided that he had acted a part so long that he had therefore lost all insincerity, and had become one with the character he had drawn for himself.

He leant forward, intimate, as one who bares his soul to his confessor.

He leant forward, intimate, as one who bares his soul to his confessor.

“And then⁠—no one has really understood me since my mother died.”

Weakness, self-pity—at once I held the key to his character.

“And then—no one has really understood me since my mother died.”

Weakness, self-pity⁠—at once I held the key to his character.

Justified, perhaps, a shallow, empty life, like most of us who came through the War, but surely he could have found somewhere a place to rest?

Justified, perhaps, a shallow, empty life, like most of us who came through the War, but surely he could have found somewhere a place to rest?

He could not have searched in himself, nor in anyone, for that matter, for that small grain of beauty that lies in all of us, even in the most weary, the most forsaken.

“No one has understood me since my mother died.”

He looked at me helplessly. I wondered why he took such pains to explain this to me.

War records⁠—what do they matter now, one way or another?

He conjured in my mind a vision of old men in clubs, discussing the election of a possible new member. “They tell me he has a very fine war record.” “Oh! really,” and the matter is settled.

I didn’t know what to do with myself at all. I got in with a crowd of people, all a little jaded, and rather excited about nothing, do you know?

We killed time, we went to parties⁠—we didn’t even really amuse one another.

That sort of thing has never appealed to me. Then I married.

“Everything seemed to combine to force us together,” he protested. “I assure you I made no definite move, but opportunities occurred—these things have to happen, it’s human nature. And I’m so damned sensitive to beauty.”

One by one his little weapons fell from him, and his words helped him not at all.

“Things went on like this for about six weeks, and then Kate found out. I can’t go into this, or how she discovered. It’s too sordid, too horrible. There was a terrible scene, and she threatened to make a scandal.

“One gets so awfully lonely,” he explained. “

I can rub along with most people, but there’s something underneath all the time that keeps alive in spite of one’s efforts to kill it⁠—a pain, a reminder.

I tried drinking, but it wasn’t any use. It didn’t ease me, or even give me any pleasure, but I hoped it would help me to forget, you know—vaguely.”

His wisdom seemed infinite.

The more one drinks the more one forgets⁠—always vaguely.

“I began to wonder about Kate, and my little boy. She had not written to me for a long while, nor I to her, for that matter. I realised that the boy must be nearly three, and I had never seen him.

We arrived in England, put up at the same hotel—and then he vanished. Not a trace of him, nor my money. It sounds a faked, unlikely story, doesn’t it, but I assure you it’s true.

“After that nothing will ever surprise me again; I’m prepared for anything⁠—any mortal thing that comes along.”

Once more he became humble, small; he seemed to shrink into himself.

“I’m lodging in Golders Green at the moment. There’s a girl there who’s been very sweet to me—and I believe I’m fond of her. But, of course, the position is hopeless, and I hate ties in any form, I must be independent.

“It’s difficult, so difficult, to know how to use one’s life. If only there was someone who could really help, really understand.”

We sat for a while in silence. I racked my brains, wondering if my uncle could do anything—if there was an opening for him in his office.

“No, no! I didn’t mean it! Don’t go! I am a fool.”

She clung to the receiver as though she was with him.

“Well, damn it! You make things so difficult. What do you think I did?” There was a pause.

He stood before the window and watched the rain. What an effort it was, this continual being … If one told the truth for one moment there was the devil to pay.

Women were a cope⁠—a decided cope. Still, difficult to live without them⁠—one way and another.

He glanced at the letter that had arrived with his breakfast.

He stood before the window and watched the rain. What an effort it was, this continual being …

If one told the truth for one moment there was the devil to pay.

Women were a cope—a decided cope. Still, difficult to live without them—one way and another.

One never knew … All the same, she must not shout things from the housetops. Sort of damn silly thing a woman would do. Still, she did not yet telephone him every hour of the day like the last one.

She was very lovely⁠—and very useful.

He wound up the gramophone that she had given him. He supposed he would be able to use her car again today. Impossible to walk a step in this rain. She had suggested giving him a car of his own.

Surely she would never dream of losing her head to such an appalling extent!

Women had no sense of proportion at all.

“Just think, you and I starving in a garret,” she went on dreamily.

“Yes, but it would be the action of a cad,” he said quickly. “I should never forgive myself. How could I be so brutal to drag you away from all your comforts and luxury! It would be criminal.”

He struck his fist upon the table. He almost believed it himself.

“No,” he continued gently, “we must try and content ourselves with things as they are. One day—oh, one day …”

“No,” he continued gently, “we must try and content ourselves with things as they are. One day—oh, one day …”

He looked into her eyes. He could say this so many times, and it invariably rang true.

“You know,” he said, as he glanced down the menu and chose mixed grill at 1s. 9d.—she might expect him to pay—“you know, I don’t believe any two lovers have ever understood one another as we do. I can’t explain;

“I feel it, too,” she answered breathlessly. “

I’m sure people have said this before, but they’ve never meant it.

”

“Do you? If only I wasn’t so confoundedly proud.”

“Oh! But you’re a genius⁠—no one expects you to understand money. You’re above the sordid material things of life.”

“Um—I suppose I am.” He frowned and drummed with his fingers on the table.

“Um—I suppose I am.” He frowned and drummed with his fingers on the table.

Poor lamb, she thought, how artistic he is, how temperamental.

“You will let me help you, won’t you?” she pleaded.

“I want to kiss you for twenty-four hours without stopping.”

She revelled in the old, worn words.

“Shall we go?” she murmured.

To make up for this he hailed a taxi, aggressively rattling the change in his pocket. “But, of course, I’m going to see you home,” he said reproachfully as she held out her hand.

The taxi bumped amidst the traffic, and their kisses though ardent, were unsuccessful.

“If we could be like this always,” he lied.

“But, of course, I’m going to see you home,” he said reproachfully as she held out her hand. The taxi bumped amidst the traffic, and their kisses though ardent, were unsuccessful.

“If we could be like this always,” he lied.

She smiled in ecstasy and fumbled for her powder puff.

Only his daughter, a young unsophisticated girl, red elbows in evening dress. Not unattractive in profile, but too young, much too young. Still, he had made the most of his time. After all, her father was an important man.

It never did to let opportunities like this occur merely to pass them by.

He spoke to her early in the evening, and towards the end he was still by her side.

“Nonsense—anyway, I feel we are going to be friends, real friends.” He held out his cigarette case and smiled. “You don’t smoke? How refreshing.

One gets so tired of these women with their eternal cigarettes.

”

He lay down upon the sofa, settled the cushions behind his head, started a record, and balanced a sheet of foolscap against his knee.

The room filled with smoke and the gramophone played, but the sheet of foolscap remained white and untouched.

Suddenly the telephone rang sharply, screamingly, in his ear. With a grunt of annoyance he stretched out his hand.

“I don’t know, I’ve never thought about it before,” he said, “I’ll try something else tonight. We might alter the whole of the last act. What about wearing a beard?

I’m sure one could give an entirely different performance in a beard.

”

“I’ve wanted to so often, but something always prevented me, a sort of silly pride. A feeling you wouldn’t know me, wouldn’t remember. I come and see all your plays, you know.

I’m still sentimental enough to cut out your notices and paste them in a book!

”

She watched his expression with grave eyes. “I said thirty years just now, but maybe it’s a little less,” she answered. “Time is such a ridiculous thing.

Do you know I’ve only got to relax, and throw my mind back, and I can hear the sound of your cab starting, and you driving away in it, hot and furious, with me lying on my bed imagining that nobody ever got over a broken heart.

”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she told him, “it’s because we never struck a proper basis of friendship that the whole thing finished. I think we were too young to have any judgment—too young and too selfish. No sense of values.

We were like greedy children who make themselves sick with overeating.

”

“I shall never regret it,” she said suddenly, “never one second.

Being in love⁠—terribly in love⁠—is the best thing in the world, don’t you think?

The only moment I have sometimes regretted was sending you away as I did. We might have gone on being happy.”

He did not want it to be like this. He wanted a hulking brute of a husband who treated her badly, who never understood her.

He wanted her to be lonely and unloved, leaning out of a window, watching for a star.

He could not allow her to be married for twenty-seven years and have four grown-up children. She seemed to take it all for granted, too. She made no allowance for his feelings.

“So much for fidelity,” he said grimly, “so much for vows and promises, and all the things that go to make up belief.

We used to hold each other and whisper words like ‘never’ and ‘forever.’ Just a silly little string of lies, that’s what they were.

You’ve killed my last illusions today; you’ve made me feel as though nothing’s worth while.”

She shrugged her shoulders and began to draw the gloves on her large brown hands.

“You talk as though you had never made love to other women,” she laughed comfortably.

“Other women?” He waved the idea away. He would not even discuss it. In his mind he saw a meaningless procession, all to whom he had sworn the same things. The thought irritated him. He found it unattractive.

“Other women?” He waved the idea away. He would not even discuss it. In his mind he saw a meaningless procession, all to whom he had sworn the same things. The thought irritated him. He found it unattractive.

He would have liked men and women to be as birds on a tree⁠—the male bird dumb and inconsolable on a high branch, with its mate dead at the foot of the tree.

The picture saddened him. He felt unhappy for no reason. She was standing now, the ugly hat crammed over her face, the scarf pulled anyhow on her shoulder.

He looked at her white hair and the bronzed, weather-beaten face.

“You’re taking something away with you that belongs to me,” he said.

“It’s something that has no name, but it means a great deal to me. I wish I knew what it was.”

After he had been engaged to her for seven years he felt that it was impossible to wait for her any longer.

Human endurance had been tested to the limit. For seven years he had held her hand by the stile in the field, and it was beginning to pall at last.

Human endurance had been tested to the limit.

For seven years he had held her hand by the stile in the field, and it was beginning to pall at last.

It seemed to him that there must be more in life than these things.

Such follies belonged to the distant past. He was twenty-four now instead of eighteen.

In the irony of his soul he wondered what Napoleon would have done if someone had offered him a box of tin soldiers; it occurred to him that Suzanne Lenglen in her day would have protested had she been compelled to play battledore and shuttlecock.

He was earnest, he was desperate, he was very much in love.

He was earnest, he was desperate, he was very much in love.

Saying good night to her at half-past nine in the evening was a modern equivalent to the appalling tortures of the Spanish Inquisition.

At these moments his legs twisted themselves inside out, his fingers clutched at the air, and his tongue got caught up his uvula.

“I can well believe it,” he said; “but it has got nothing to do with me. Personally, for a boy of your type, I put my faith in long engagements.

You’ve been engaged for seven years. Why not draw up a contract for another seven?

”

The older man interrupted him brutally.

“I’m not at all interested in what you feel. Can you support a wife?”

“No—yes—at least. I will find a job.”

“I see. Is that enough to make her happy?”

“You expect to make a girl happy when you’ve no money, no job, no qualifications, and the only thing know how to handle is a spanner.”

“Splendid. I’ll say no more. My daughter is twenty-four; she can do as she likes. I’ll pay for your wedding, but neither of you get a penny from me afterwards. You can work. I have a feeling your marriage will be a success.”

The wedding was good, as weddings go. There were church bells, white dresses, veils, orange blossom, and the “Voice That Breathed O’er Eden.”

The bridegroom tripped over his feet, fumbled with the ring, forgot his lines, and looked at his bride as though she were a lump of chocolate and he were a Pekingese.

There were champagne, speeches and tears; the afternoon ended up with a cloud of confetti and somebody’s old shoe. The bride and bridegroom left with nothing but five pounds, a couple of suitcases and a borrowed Austin Seven.

There were champagne, speeches and tears; the afternoon ended up with a cloud of confetti and somebody’s old shoe. The bride and bridegroom left with nothing but five pounds, a couple of suitcases and a borrowed Austin Seven.

Their one stick of furniture was a tent.

“My darling,” he told her, “I cannot afford to take you to a seaside hotel, not even for a weekend. We must sleep under the stars.”

He gurgled strangely and waved his hands.

“A pigsty with you would be Paradise,” he said, “but to think of you in a tent.⁠ ⁠…”

“There will be a moon,” she sighed, “and trees murmuring, and a brook rippling.”

“We will leave it near the road, and we’ll strike inland towards those trees. I’ll carry the tent on my back.”

“You look like a prehistoric man, passionate and savage,” she told him.

“I feel it, my darling.”

The grey dawn crept into the sky.

The battered remains of white canvas fluttered hideously in the wind, like the torn rags of some long-dead explorer.

A young man hammered at the pegs with the undaunted perseverance of the very great.

And the rain fell and the wind blew. Once a still small voice spoke from the fork of a tree.

“Darling,” it said, “I believe we’d have been happier at Bournemouth, after all.”

Two figures stood side by side on the edge of the London road.

There was a sharp note of irritation in his voice.

It is not every man who spends his wedding night in a gorse bush.

And now the car was gone, and in it their two suitcases—nothing remained to them but the clothes they wore.

As children lost in a wood, they wandered up and down the Euston Road.

Shabby, rain-bespattered and unwashed, they looked like the remnant of a hunger strike march.

Suddenly her shoe button burst. Stifling a groan, she bent her weary back to fix the strap.

The woman sniffed and shrugged her shoulders.

“You seem to have lost a good many things.”

“We are telling the truth,” he said coldly.

She turned and left them in the passage.

“Good heavens! Have I got to creep like a thief to my own wife?” he whispered fiercely.

“Hush! she may hear,” she whispered back.

“Oh! no,” she told him. “I’ve got a job, too. I’m a daily companion to a lady in Golders Green. My hours are from nine until seven.”

He stared at her as one who has heard sentence of death.

“You don’t mean what you’re saying!”

I wonder how many people’s lives are ruined by a moment’s indiscretion.

The wrong word at the wrong time—and then finish to all their dreams. They have to go on living with their tongues bitten a second too late. No use calling back the spoken word. What is said is said.

I wonder how many people’s lives are ruined by a moment’s indiscretion. The wrong word at the wrong time—and then finish to all their dreams.

They have to go on living with their tongues bitten a second too late.

No use calling back the spoken word. What is said is said.

I wonder how many people’s lives are ruined by a moment’s indiscretion. The wrong word at the wrong time—and then finish to all their dreams. They have to go on living with their tongues bitten a second too late.

No use calling back the spoken word. What is said is said.

I know three people who have been made to suffer because of a chance sentence flung into the air. One of them was myself. I lost my job through it. The other fellow lost his ideals;

and the woman … well, I guess she did not have much left to lose, anyway. Maybe she lost her one chance of security. I have not seen either of them since. The curt typewritten letter came from him a week later.

I packed up then and cleared away from London, leaving the shreds of my career in the wastepaper basket.

In less than three months I read an announcement in a weekly rag that he was claiming a divorce. The whole thing was so needless, too. A word from me—and a word from her.

It was cold, it was December. I had a cold in the head, and I did not want to think about Christmas. He came out of his private office and gave me a genial clap on the shoulder.

“You’re no advertisement for the time of the year,” he said, “come out and have a bite of lunch.”

I thanked him. It is not every day, or every Christmas for that matter, that one’s chief broadcasts his invitations. We went to his favourite restaurant in the Strand.

Have you ever been to the Empire? In the old days, naturally, but since they’ve turned it into a cinema? Well, let me tell you that the chap who owns that place is a genius.

He caters for fools like me who are fed up with the office, and their lodgings, and their loneliness.

There are seats especially made for tired backs and the lighting arrangements are sufficiently intriguing, and the darkness is even more intriguing.

She looked up at me for a moment, straight in my eyes, and then she nodded her head gravely. ‘I think I can trust you,’ she said. She said this in such a way—I don’t know, it seemed to go straight to my heart.

I felt very old and very wise, and she was such a child.

“She put her hand on my arm, still a little scared, a little doubting. I smiled at her. ‘That’s the way,’ I said. We turned back again down Wardour Street. There was a crowd of people in Lyons.

“It was then that she looked up at me from the fire, and she smiled without fear for the first time.

‘If I wasn’t so unhappy,’ she said, ‘this would be like a romance, wouldn’t it?’

“Romance! Funny. It was you saying the word romance just now, chief, that brought this story back to me.”