People in a novel can be understood completely by the reader, if the novelist can be understood completely by the reader, if the novelist wishes; their inner as well as their outer life can be exposed.

. . . life is sometimes life and sometimes only a drama, and one must learn to distinguish t'other from which . . .

She loved him absolutely, perhaps for half an hour.

Hardship is vanishing, but so is style, and the two are more closely connected than the present generation supposes.

There is an aristocracy of the sensitive. They represent the true human tradition of permanent victory over cruelty and chaos.

Passion does not blind. No. Passion is sanity, and the woman you love, she is the only person you will ever really understand.

What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives? They have never entered into mine, but into yours, we thought--Haven't we all to struggle against life's daily greyness, against pettiness, against mechanical cheerfulness, against suspicion? I struggle by remembering my friends; others I have known by remembering some place--some beloved place or tree--we thought you one of these.