It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?

My conviction gains infinitely the moment another soul will believe in it.

Romance only dies with life. No pair of pincers will ever pull it out of us. But there is a spurious sentiment which cannot resist the unexpected and the incongruous and the grotesque. A touch will loosen it, and the sooner it goes from us the better.

Reverence is fatal to literature.

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

The sun was already declining and each of the trees held a premonition of night.

I have no mystic faith in the people. I have in the individual.