... the novel, as a living force, if not as a work of art, owes an incalculable debt to what we call, mistakenly, the new psychology, to Freud, in his earlier interpretations, and more truly, I think, to Jung.

I've liked life well enough, but I reckon I'll like death even better as soon as I've gotten used to the feel of it. ... I shouldn't be amazed to find it less lonely than life after I'm once safely settled.

To a thrifty theologian, bent on redemption with economy, there are few points of ethics too fine-spun for splitting.

Nobody, not even the old, not even the despairing, wished to come to an end in time or in eternity.

So long as the serpent continues to crawl on the ground, the primary influence of woman will be indirect.

... to be "literary" appeared to my deluded innocence as an unending romance.

the great novels have marched with the years. They are the contemporaries of time.