Sentimentalism is the working off on yourself of feelings you haven't really got.

I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.

She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes.

The human soul needs actual beauty even more than bread.

And what's romance? Usually, a nice little tale where you have everything As You Like It, where rain never wets your jacket and gnats never bite your nose and it's always daisy-time.

And to my lips' Bright crimson rim The passion slips, And down my slim White body drips The shining hymn.

Far back, far back in our dark soul the horse prances.