I think - I think - I think how little they think what lies so near them.

There is an aristocracy of the sensitive. They represent the true human tradition of permanent victory over cruelty and chaos.

“It is Fate that I am here,” persisted George. “But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy.”

All that is observable in a man-that is to say his actions and such of his spiritual existence as can be deduced from his actions-falls into the domain of history.

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.

When that strange race nears the dust and is condemned as untouchable, then nature remembers the physical perfection that she accomplished elsewhere, and throws out a god-not many, but one here and there, to prove to society how little its categories impress her.

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