What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives? They have never entered into mine, but into yours, we thought--Haven't we all to struggle against life's daily greyness, against pettiness, against mechanical cheerfulness, against suspicion? I struggle by remembering my friends; others I have known by remembering some place--some beloved place or tree--we thought you one of these.

Love is a great force in private life; it is indeed the greatest of all things; but love in public affairs does not work.

English literature is a flying fish.

The so called white races are really pinko-grey.

Adventures do occur, but not punctually.

One's favorite book is as elusive as one's favorite pudding.

At night, when the curtains are drawn and the fire flickers, my books attain a collective dignity.