All good dialogue perhaps deals with something unprecedented.

... any fictionis bound to be transposed autobiography.

Every love has a poetic relevance of its own; each love brings to light only what to it is relevant. Outside lies the junk-yard of what does not matter.

I do like Italian graves; they look so much more lived in.

The innocent are so few that two of them seldom meet - when they do meet, their victims lie strewn all round.

Sacrificers are not the ones to pity. The ones to pity are those they sacrifice.

Ghosts, we hope, may be always with us - that is, never too far out of the reach of fancy. On the whole, it would seem they adapt themselves well, perhaps better than we do, to changing world conditions - they enlarge their domain, shift their hold on our nerves, and, dispossessed of one habitat, set up house in another. The universal battiness of our century looks like providing them with a propitious climate.