It is the vice of a vulgar mind to be thrilled by bigness.

The English countryside, its growth and its destruction, is a genuine and tragic theme.

I only wish the poets would say this too: love is of the body; not the body, but of the the body. Ah! the misery that would be saved if we confessed that! Ah! for a little directness to liberate the soul!

Romance only dies with life. No pair of pincers will ever pull it out of us. But there is a spurious sentiment which cannot resist the unexpected and the incongruous and the grotesque. A touch will loosen it, and the sooner it goes from us the better.

To trust people is a luxury in which only the wealthy can indulge; the poor cannot afford it.

I really don't know what happens next -- one so seldom does.

Life never gives us what we want at the moment that we consider appropriate.