nations decay from within more often than they surrender to outward assault.

Surely the novel should be a form of art - but art was not enough. It must contain not only the perfection of art, but the imperfection of nature.

It was a perfect spring afternoon, and the air was filled with vague, roving scents, as if the earth exhaled the sweetness of hidden flowers.

Youth is always an enemy to the old.

But youth isn't happy. Youth is sadder than age.

Pessimism is the affectation of youth, the reality of age.

Moderation has never yet engineered an explosion