life is a succession of readjustments.

Yes, writing a novel, my boy, is like driving pigs to market - you have one of them making a bolt down the wrong lane; another won't get over the right stile.

She walked about with the rather fated expression you see in photographs of girls who have subsequently been murdered, but nothing had so far happened to her.

... artists were intended to be an ornament to society. As a society in themselves they are unthinkable.

I suspect victims; they win in the long run.

... love dreads being isolated, being left to speak in a void -- at the beginning it would often rather listen than speak.

But surely love wouldn't get so much talked about if there were not something in it?