... artists were intended to be an ornament to society. As a society in themselves they are unthinkable.
Nothing, that is say no one, can be such an inexorable tour-conductor as one's own conscience or sense of duty, if one allows either the upper hand: the self-bullying that goes on in the name of sight-seeing is grievous.
The child lives in the book; but just as much the book lives in the child.
It is not our exalted feelings, it is our sentiments that build the necessary home.
Nobody can be kinder than the narcissist while you react to life in his own terms.
When I read a story, I relive the moment from which it sprang. A scene burned itself into me, a building magnetized me, a mood orseason of Nature's penetrated me, history suddenly appeared to me in some tiny act, or a face had begun to haunt me before I glanced at it.