Madness to us means reversion; to such people as Una and Lena it meant progression. Now their uncle had entered into a land beyond them, the land of fancy. For fifty years he had been as they were, silent, hard-working, unimaginative. Then all of a sudden, like a scholar passing his degree, he had gone up into another form.

And must I, perchance, like careful writers, guard myself against the conclusions of my readers?

I have a narrative, but you will be put to it to find it.

None of us suffers as much as we should, or loves as much as we say. Love is the first lie; wisdom the last.

Too great a sense of identity makes a man feel he can do no wrong. And too little does the same.

Life, the permission to know death.

I like my human experience served up with a little silence and restraint. Silence makes experience go further and, when it does die, gives it that dignity common to a thing one had touched and not ravished