The novel is the highest example of subtle interrelatedness that man has discovered.

Men fight for liberty and win it with hard knocks. Their children, brought up easy, let it slip away again, poor fools. And their grandchildren are once more slaves.

Having achieved and accomplished love, then the man passes into the unknown. He has become himself, his tale is told.

There's lots of good fish in the sea...maybe...but the vast masses seem to be mackerel or herring, and if you're not mackerel or herring yourself, you are likely to find very few good fish in the sea.

The map appears to us more real than the land.

Beauty is an experience, nothing else. It is not a fixed pattern or an arrangement of features. It is something felt, a glow or a communicated sense of fineness.

Nobody knows you. You don't know yourself. And I, who am half in love with you, What am I in love with? My own imaginings?