You look as if you had lived on duty and it hadn't agreed with you.

Conscience represents a fetich to which good people sacrifice their own happiness, bad people their neighbors'.

A tragic irony of life is that we so often achieve success or financial independence after the chief reason for which we sought it has passed away.

Yes, I learned long ago that the only satisfaction of authorship lies in finding the very few who understand what we mean. As for outside rewards, there is not one that I have ever discovered.

And where was happiness if it sprung not from the soil? Where contentment if it dwelt not near to Nature?

If broken hearts could kill, the earth would be as dead as the moon.

... 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.