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.

You can't insure against the future, except by really believing in the best bit of you, and in the power beyond it.

You don't want to be an animal, you want to observe your own animal functions, so as to get a mental thrill out of them. It is allpurely secondary--and more decadent than the most hide-bound intellectualism.

Money poisons you when you've got it, and starves you when you haven't.

The world of men is dreaming, it has gone mad in its sleep, and a snake is strangling it, but it can't wake up.

The dead don't die. They look on and help.

We have buried so much of the delicate magic of life.