Let there be an end ... of all this welter of pity, which is only self-pity reflected onto some obvious surface.

Sex is just another form of talk, where you act the words instead of saying them.

One's action ought to come out of an achieved stillness: not to be a mere rushing on.

Morality in the novel is the trembling instability of the balance. When the novelist puts his thumb in the scale, to pull down the balance to his own predilection, that is immorality.

It is our business to go as we are impelled.

The mystery of the evening-star brilliant in silence and distance between the downward-surging plunge of the sun and the vast, hollow seething of inpouring night. The magnificence of the watchful morning-star, that watches between the night and the day, the gleaming clue to the two opposites.

Let there be an end ... of all this welter of pity, which is only self-pity reflected onto some obvious surface.