When you're a writer you no longer see things with the freshness of the normal person. There are always two figures that work inside you. — Brian Moore Copy Share Image
“What could he be thinking of? He seemed to be trying to remember something, perhaps an engagement, perhaps an excuse to leave her. For… — Brian Moore Copy Share Image
“I am, always have been, a fool who rushes in, a blurter-out of awkward truths, a speaker-up at parties who, the morning after, filled… — Brian Moore Copy Share Image
“ There, in the dining-room, amid the wreck of dinner glasses, dishes, wine bottles, there settled on all three of us an instant of total… — Brian Moore Copy Share Image
As always on this boulevard, the faces were young, coming annually in an endless migration from every country, every continent, to alight here once… — Brian Moore Copy Share Image
“And the bell jangled, the driver started. The bus whirled off, to the last stop, the lonely room, the lonely night.” — Brian Moore Copy Share Image
“O, she said, a woman in love can't afford to be proud. He must be made to see, he must be made to come… — Brian Moore Copy Share Image
“And maybe, although it was a thing you could hardly bear to think about, like death or your last judgment, maybe he would be… — Brian Moore Copy Share Image
“For it was important to have things to tell which interested your friends. And Miss Hearne had always been able to find interesting happenings… — Brian Moore Copy Share Image
“He was a horrid-looking fellow. Fat as a pig he was, and his face was the colour of cottage cheese. His collar was unbuttoned… — Brian Moore Copy Share Image
