Trust no friend without faults, and love a woman, but no angel.
For she was of that generation who, having found nothing in religion, had formed themselves through literature.
Man who is he? Too bad, to be the work of God: Too good for the work of chance!
I would not be at all surprised to find out . . . that the dimensions of buildings affect us in ways we don't guess.
Writers do not come out of houses without books.
The white man has settled like a locust over Africa, and, like the locusts in early morning, cannot take flight for the heaviness of the dew on their wings. But the dew that weights the white man is the money that he makes from our labor.