[W]hen man first dreamed of flying he had seen himself rising on his own silver wings into the blue empyrean, but it hadn’t turned out at all like that. First he was trundled to a field, then he was shut in a box, then he was terrified, then he was sick, then he was in Paris. – Josephine Tey, The Singing Sands, 1952.
I like her for her crispness.
