Good values and a lot of money.

A sense of what’s right, a few quid and some nice paintings.

Yet one thing cannot be robbed of her futurity: my daughter, Cady. I hope I’ll live long enough that she has some memory of me. Words have a longevity I do not. I had thought I could leave her a series of letters — but what would they really say? ... There is perhaps only one thing to say to this infant, who is all future, overlapping briefly with me, whose life, barring the improbable, is all but past. That message is simple: When you come to one of the many moments in life when you must give an account of yourself, provide a ledger of what you have been, and done, and meant to the world, do not, I pray, discount that you filled a dying man’s days with a sated joy, a joy unknown to me in all my prior years, a joy that does not hunger for more and more, but rests, satisfied.

A strong work ethic and enough wealth not to need it.

That you get out of life what you put in. When you grow up on a farm you literally reap what you sow.

Jealousy. It’s the thief of joy.

There’s a house near me that I adore and it came up for sale, and I got to the point of nearly buying it and then pulled out because I’m trying to be sensible.

My new year resolution is actually to read all the classics and I’m ashamed that I haven’t read everything by the Brontë sisters.

Chaotic, warm, northern.

Losing my eyesight – I live for the view, and the sunset and the sunrise.