Men live in glad obedience to the masters they believe in, or they live in a frictional opposition to the master they wish to undermine.

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

Sometimes life takes hold of one, carries the body along, accomplishes one's history, and yet is not real, but leaves oneself as it were slurred over.

Man is a thought-adventurer.

We have buried so much of the delicate magic of life.

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 turned into a dream. I feel nothing, or I don't know what I feel. Yet it seems to me I am happy.