The Spanish wine, my God, it is foul, catpiss is champagne compared, this is the sulphurous urination of some aged horse.

He always ran away from the battle with himself. Even in his own heart's privacy, he excused himself, saying, "If she hadn't said so-and-so, it would never have happened.

And then she realized that his presence was the wall, his presence was destroying her. Unless she could break out, she must die most fearfully, walled up in horror. And he was the wall. She must break down the wall. She must break him down before her, the awful obstruction of him who obstructed her life to the last. It must be done, or she must perish most horribly.

Only in a novel are all things given full play.

The Moon! Artemis! the great goddess of the splendid past of men! Are you going to tell me she is a dead lump?

When I read Shakespeare I am struck with wonder that such trivial people should muse and thunder in such lovely language.

The soul is a very perfect judge of her own motions, if your mind doesn't dictate to her.