There was a warmth of fury in his last phrases. He meant she loved him more than he her. Perhaps he could not love her. Perhaps she had not in herself that which he wanted. It was the deepest motive of her soul, this self-mistrust. It was so deep she dared neither realise nor acknowledge. Perhaps she was deficient. Like an infinitely subtle shame, it kept her always back. If it were so, she would do without him. She would never let herself want him. She would merely see.

Beauty is a mystery. You can neither eat it nor make flannel out of it.

One must learn to love, and go through a good deal of suffering to get to it... and the journey is always towards the other soul.

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

Men are free when they belong to a living, organic, believing community, active in fulfilling some unfulfilled, perhaps unrealized purpose.

If a woman hasn't got a tiny streak of harlot in her, she's a dry stick as a rule.

Men and women should stay apart, till their hearts grow gentle towards one another again.