What was time itself but the bloom, the sheath enfolding experience? Within time, and with time alone, there was life - the gleam, the quiver, the heartbeat, the immeasurable joy and anguish of being.

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

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.

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

Women are one of the Almighty's enigmas to prove to men that He knows more than they do.

I revolted from sentimentality, less because it was false than because it was cruel.

Nothing, except the weather report or a general maxim of conduct, is so unsafe to rely upon as a theory of fiction.