In our hurried world too little value is attached to the part of the connoisseur and dilettante.

I shan't be lonely now. I was lonely; I was afraid. But the emptiness and the darkness are gone; when I turn back into myself now I'm like a child going at night into a room where there's always a light.

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

She said she knew we were safe with you, and always would be, because once, when she asked you to, you'd given up the thing you most wanted." Archer received this strange communication in silence. His eyes remained unseeingly fixed on the thronged sunlit square below the window. At length he said in a low voice: "She never asked me.

She wondered if, when human souls try to get too near each other, they do not inevitably become mere blurs to each other's vision.

A classic is classic not because it conforms to certain structural rules, or fits certain definitions (of which its author had quite probably never heard). It is classic because of a certain eternal and irrepressible freshness.

One cares so little for the style in which one's praises are written.