We have really no absent friends.

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

The writer, unlike his non-writing adult friend, has no predisposed outlook; he seldom observes deliberately. He sees what he didnot intend to see; he remembers what does not seem wholly possible. Inattentive learner in the schoolroom of life, he keeps some faculty free to veer and wander. His is the roving eye.

In 'real life' everything is diluted; in the novel everything is condensed.

Pity the selfishness of lovers: it is brief, a forlorn hope; it is impossible.

Don't you understand that all language is dead currency? How they keep on playing shop with it all the same.

Love of privacy - perhaps because of the increasing exactions of society - has become in many people almost pathological.