The traveller who has gone to Italy to study the tactile values of Giotto, or the corruption of the Papacy, may return remembering nothing but the blue sky and the men and women who live under it.

The work of art assumes the existence of the perfect spectator, and is indifferent to the fact that no such person exists.

Don't be mysterious; there isn't the time.

It is the vice of a vulgar mind to be thrilled by bigness.

Human beings have their great chance in the novel.

Hope, politeness, the blowing of a nose, the squeak of a boot, all produce "boum.

Death destroys a man, but the idea of death saves him.