If we had reverence for our life, our life would take at once religious form. But as it is, in our filthy irreverence, it remains a disgusting slough, where each one of us goes so thoroughly disguised in dirt that we are all alike and indistinguishab

I am turned into a dream. I feel nothing, or I don't know what I feel. Yet it seems to me I am happy.

When I wish I was rich, then I know I am ill.

Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically.

I can only see death and more death, till we are black and swollen with death.

The novel is the highest example of subtle interrelatedness that man has discovered.

Literary criticism can be no more than a reasoned account of the feeling produced upon the critic by the book he is criticising.