Expansion, that is the idea the novelist must cling to, not completion, not rounding off, but opening out.
Faith, to my mind, is a stiffening process, a sort of mental starch.
You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you.
It is impossible to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an interruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gesture mean nothing, or mean too much.
There's enough sorrow in the world, isn't there, without trying to invent it.
Their quarrel was no more surprising than are most quarrels — inevitable at the time, incredible afterwards.