It was not the passion that was new to her, it was the yearning adoration. She knew she had always feared it, for it left her helpless; she feared it still, lest if se adored him too much, then she would lose herself, become effaced, and she did not want to be effaced, a slave, like a savage woman. She must not become a slave. She feared her adoration, yet she would not at once fight against it.

The novel is the one bright book of life. Books are not life. They are only tremulations on the ether. But the novel as a tremulation can make the whole man alive tremble.

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

Do not allow to slip away from you freedoms the people who came before you won with such hard knocks.

The Christian fear of the pagan outlook has damaged the whole consciousness of man.

But then peace, peace! I am so mistrustful of it: so much afraid that it means a sort of weakness and giving in.

Who knows the power that Saturn has over us, or Venus? But it is a vital power, rippling exquisitely through us all the time.