A woman has to live her life, or live to repent not having lived it.

An artist is only an ordinary man with a greater potentiality.

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.

Be sure your sins will find you out, especially if you're married and her name's Bertha

Naught is possessed, neither gold, nor land nor love, nor life, nor peace, nor even sorrow nor death, nor yet salvation. Say of nothing: It is mine. Say only: It is with me.

I am part of the sun as my eye is part of me. That I am part of the earth my feet know perfectly, and my blood is part of the sea. My soul knows that I am part of the human race, my soul is an organic part of the great human race, as my spirit is part of my nation. In my own very self, I am part of my family.

Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite, exquisite and melting her all molten inside.