[Reformers] might be classified as a distinct species having eyes in the back of their heads.

... 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.

A good novel cannot be too long or a bad novel too short.

Nothing is more consuming, or more illogical, than the desire for remembrance.

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.

I waited and worked, and watched the inferior exalted for nearly thirty years; and when recognition came at last, it was too late to alter events, or to make a difference in living.

Cruelty, I truly believe, is the one and only sin.