It grew late. Through the open door, stealthily, came the scent of madonna lilies, almost as if it were prowling abroad.

The human soul needs actual beauty even more than bread.

I should feel the air move against me, and feel the things I touched, instead of having only to look at them. I'm sure life is all wrong because it has become much too visual - we can neither hear nor feel nor understand, we can only see. I'm sure that is entirely wrong.

The novel is the highest form of human expression so far attained. Why? Because it is so incapable of the absolute.

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

It always seemed to me that men wore their beards, like they wear their neckties, for show.

What's that as flies without wings, your ladyship? Time! Time!