Sing then the core of dark and absolute oblivion where the soul at last is lost in utter peace.

To penetrate into Italy is like a most fascinating act of self-discovery-back, back down the old ways of time. Strange and wonderful chords awake in us, and vibrate again after many hundreds of years of complete forgetfulness.

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 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.

You must always be a-waggle with LOVE.

I think I am much too valuable a creature to offer myself to a German bullet gratis and for fun.

When I hear modern people complain of being lonely then I know what has happened. They have lost the cosmos.