She was very near hating him now; yet the sound of his voice, the way the light fell on his thin, dark hair, the way he sat and moved and wore his clothes—she was conscious that even these trivial things were inwoven with her deepest life.

After all, one knows one's weak points so well, that it's rather bewildering to have the critics overlook them and invent others.

We live in our own souls as in an unmapped region, a few acres of which we have cleared for our habitation; while of the nature of those nearest us we know but the boundaries that march with ours.

Think what stupid things the people must have done with their money who say they're 'happier without'.

Dialogue in fiction should be reserved for the culminating moments and regarded as the spray into which the great wave of narrative breaks in curving towards the watcher on the shore.

... there are spines to which the immobility of worship is not a strain.

It is so easy for a woman to become what the man she loves believes her to be