How ridiculous were the attentions the weak paid one another in the shadow of the strong! - V. S. Naipaul

If a writer doesn’t generate hostility, he is dead.

On the white wall at the end of the room was a large oil painting of a European port, done in reds and yellows and blues. It was in slapdash modern style; the lady had painted it herself and signed it. She had given it pride of place in her main room. Yet she hadn’t thought it worth the trouble of taking away.

He spoke about Africa in an unusual way. He spoke of Africa as though Africa was a sick child and he was the parent.