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

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

Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along- especially the function of Love.

We are not concerned with the very poor. They are unthinkable, and only to be approached by the statistician or the poet.

Of course he despised the world as a whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement.

I think you’re beautiful, the only beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I love your voice and everything to do with you, down to your clothes or the room you are sitting in. I adore you.

There was something better in life than this rub­bish, if only he could get to it—love—nobility—big spaces where passion clasped peace, spaces no science could reach, but they existed for ever, full of woods some of them, and arched with majestic sky and a friend. . .