In every great novel, who is the hero all the time? Not any of the characters, but some unnamed and nameless flame behind them all.

Gods should be iridescent, like the rainbow in the storm. Man creates a God in his own image, and the gods grow old along with the men that made them... But the god-stuff roars eternally, like the sea, with too vast a sound to be heard.

Death is the only pure, beautiful conclusion of a great passion.

But then peace, peace! I am so mistrustful of it: so much afraid that it means a sort of weakness and giving in.

One should be religious in everything, have God, whatever God might be, present in everything.

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.

There is only one thing that a man really wants to do, all his life; and that is, to find his way to his God, his Morning Star, salute his fellow man, and enjoy the woman who has come the long way with him.