Men yearn for poetry though they may not confess it; they desire that joy shall be graceful and sorrow august and infinity have a form.

This solitude opressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong.

Truth is a flower in whose neighbourhood others must wither.

He had known so much about her once -what she thought, how she felt, the reasons for her actions. And now he only knew that he loved her, and all the other knowledge seemed passing from him just as he needed it most.

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

Spoon feeding in the long run teaches us nothing but the shape of the spoon.

It's not what people do to you, but what they mean, that hurts.