I am a Jane Austenite, and therefore slightly imbecile about Jane Austen. My fatuous expression, and airs of personal immunity-how ill they sit on the face, say,of a Stevensonian! But Jane Austen is so different. She is my favourite author! I read and reread, the mouth open and the mind closed. Shut up in measureless content, I greet her by the name of most kind hostess, while criticism slumbers.

It was unbearable, and he thought again, 'How unhappy I am!' and became happier.

Some reviews give pain. This is regrettable, but no author has the right to whine. He was not obliged to be an author. He invited publicity, and he must take the publicity that comes along.

An efficiency-regime cannot be run without a few heroes stuck about it to carry off the dullness - much as plums have to be put into bad pudding to make it palatable.

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

... there are shadows because there are hills.

For it is a serious thing to have been watched. We all radiate something curiously intimate when we believe ourselves to be alone.