Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth.

She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love.

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

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.

One person with passion is better than forty people merely interested.

Culture had worked in her own case, but during the last few weeks she had doubted whether it humanized the majority, so wide and so widening is the gulf that stretches between the natural and the philosophic man, so many the good chaps who are wrecked in trying to cross it.

Sometimes I think too much fuss is made about marriage. Century after century of carnal embracement and we're still no nearer to understanding one another.