The human consciousness is really homogeneous. There is no complete forgetting, even in death.

There's always the hyena of morality at the garden gate, and the real wolf at the end of the street.

Beauty is a mystery. You can neither eat it nor make flannel out of it.

Why, oh why must one grow up, why must one inherit this heavy, numbing responsibility of living an undiscovered life? Out of the nothingness and the undifferentiated mass, to make something of herself! But what? In the obscurity and pathlessness to take a direction! But whither? How take even one step? And yet, how stand still? This was torment indeed, to inherit the responsibility of one’s own life.

Any novel of importance has a purpose. If only the "purpose" be large enough, and not at outs with the passional inspiration.

A woman unsatisfied must have luxuries. But a woman who loves a man would sleep on a board

No absolute is going to make the lion lie down with the lamb: unless the lamb is inside.