I would rather be a coward than brave because people hurt you when you are brave.

The armour of falsehood is subtly wrought out of darkness, and hides a man not only from others, but from his own soul.

The novelist, unlike many of his colleagues, makes up a number of word-masses roughly describing himself (roughly: niceties shallcome later), gives them names and sex, assigns them plausible gestures, and causes them to speak by the use of inverted commas, and perhaps to behave consistently.

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.

Human beings have their great chance in the novel.

It was unbearable, and he thought again, 'How unhappy I am!' and became happier.

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