Sleep is still most perfect, in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved.

The business of art is to reveal the relation between man and his environment.

The East is marvellously interesting for tracing our steps back. But for going forward, it is nothing. All it can hope for is to be fertilised by Europe, so that it can start on a new phase.

A book lives as long as it is unfathomed.

There is nothing to save, now all is lost, but a tiny core of stillness in the heart like the eye of a violet.

Any novel of importance has a purpose. If only the "purpose" be large enough, and not at outs with the passional inspiration.

Oh, what a catastrophe for man when he cut himself off from the rhythm of the year, from his unison with the sun and the earth. Oh, what a catastrophe, what a maiming of love when it was a personal, merely personal feeling, taken away from the rising and the setting of the sun, and cut off from the magic connection of the solstice and the equinox!