What I hated even more than the conflict was the lurid spectacle of a world of unreason.

... 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.

The nearer she came to death, the more, by some perversity of nature, did she enjoy living.

Some women enjoy unhappy love affairs, you know, though I have always felt that they are greatly overrated.

After a day of rain the sun came out suddenly at five o'clock and threw a golden bar into the deep Victorian gloom of the front parlour

Preserve, within a wild sanctuary, an inaccessible valley of reverie.

Many of the men who had come to the wilderness to practice religion appeared to have forgotten its true nature.