The strong are so stupid.

If we act the truth the people who really love us are sure to come back to us in the long run

The sun was already declining and each of the trees held a premonition of night.

History develops, art stands still.

I have almost completed a long novel, but it is unpublishable until my death and England's.

But after all, what have we to do with taverns? Real menace belongs to the drawing-room.

How can I know what I think till I see what I say?