The work of art assumes the existence of the perfect spectator, and is indifferent to the fact that no such person exists.

This solitude opressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong.

Riposte of "that old lady in the anecdote who was accused by her nieces of being illogical," Logic! Good gracious! What rubbish! How can I tell what I think till I see what I say?

The novel is a formidable mass, and it is so amorphous - no mountain in it to climb, no Parnassus or Helicon, not even a Pisgah. It is most distinctly one of the moister areas of literature - irrigated by a hundred rills and occasionally degenerating into a swamp. I do not wonder that the poets despise it, though they sometimes find themselves in it by accident. And I am not surprised at the annoyance of the historians when by accident it finds itself among them.

Their quarrel was no more surprising than are most quarrels — inevitable at the time, incredible afterwards.

...the true spirit of gastronomic joylessness. Porridge fills the Englishman up, and prunes clear him out.

Those who search for truth are too conscious of the maze to be hard on others...