She had lost herself somewhere along the frontier between her inventions, her stories, her fantasies and her true self. The boundaries had become effaced, the tracks lost, she had walked into pure chaos, and not a chaos which carried her like the galloping of romantic riders in operas and legends, but which suddenly revealed the stage props: a papier-mâché horse.

People living deeply have no fear of death.

How wrong it is for a woman to expect the man to build the world she wants, rather than to create it herself.

A war regarded as inevitable or even probable, and therefore much prepared for, has a very good chance of eventually being fought.

Our psychological reality, which lies below the surface, frightens us because it endlessly surprises us and drives us in a direction which society's rules and organizations define as wrong or dangerous.

There is no denying that we are suffering from a collective neurosis and the novel which does not face this is not a novel of our time.

the cynic is a coward. He foresees all barrenness so that barrenness can never surprise him.