For me, the novel is experience illumined by imagination.
Happiness is a hardy annual.
Youth is always an enemy to the old.
Spring, which germinated in the earth, moved also with a strange restlessness, in the hearts of... women. As the weeks passed, inextinguishable hope, which mounts with the rising sap, looked from their faces.
Women like to sit down with trouble - as if it were knitting.
There is only one force stronger than selfishness, and that is stupidity.