What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives?

The crime of suicide lies rather in its disregard for the feelings of those whom we leave behind.

I have almost completed a long novel, but it is unpublishable until my death and England's.

Words deserted him immediately. He could only speak when he was not asked to.

The strong are so stupid.

It is never possible for a novelist to deny time inside the fabric of his novel: he must cling, however lightly, to the thread of his story, he must touch the interminable tapeworm, otherwise he becomes unintelligible, which, in his case, is a blunder.

For our vanity is such that we hold our own characters immutable, and we are slow to acknowledge that they have changed, even for the better.