Reason can never reconcile one to life: nothing allays the wants one cannot explain.

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.

...there must be something she wanted; and that therefore she was no lady.

Fate is not an eagle, it creeps like a rat.

Experience isn't interesting until it begins to repeat itself. In fact, till it does that, it hardly is experience.

There is no end to the violations committed by children on children, quietly talking alone.

She had one of those charming faces which, according to the angle from which you see them, look either melancholy or impertinent. Her eyes were grey; her trick of narrowing them made her seem to reflect, the greater part of the time, in the dusk of her second thoughts. With that mood, that touch of arriere pensee, went an uncertain, speaking set of lips.