Why do we call all our generous ideas illusions, and the mean ones truths?

What Lily craved was the darkness made by enfolding arms, the silence which is not solitude, but compassion holding its breath.

And all the while, I suppose," he thought, "real people were living somewhere, and real things happening to them.

It frightened him to think what must have gone to the making of her eyes.

There are lots of ways of being miserable, but there's only one way of being comfortable, and that is to stop running round after happiness. If you make up your mind not to be happy there's no reason why you shouldn't have a fairly good time.

The true felicity of a lover of books is the luxurious turning of page by page, the surrender, not meanly abject, but deliberate and cautious, with your wits about you, as you deliver yourself into the keeping of the book. This I call reading.

... naturalness is not always consonant with taste.