But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like some one in a book.

How few writers can prostitute all their powers!

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

Suspense: the only literary tool that has any effect upon tyrants and savages.

Towns are after all excrescences, grey fluxions, where men, hurrying to find one another, have lost themselves.

I really don't know what happens next -- one so seldom does.

Human relations are impossible. When they are real they are uncomfortable, and when they are comfortable they are unreal. It was for the journey into solitude that the human soul was created.