Civilization will not attain to its perfection until the last stone from the last church falls on the last priest.

It was always the same; other people gave up loving before she did. They got spoilt, or else they went away; in any case, they were partly to blame. Why did it happen so? She herself never changed; when she loved anyone, it was for life. She could not understand desertion; it was something so huge, so monstrous that the notion of it made her little heart break.

Oh, the fools, like a lot of good little schoolboys, scared to death of anything they've been taught is wrong!

She might have liked to try to strangle him with those slender fingers of hers, but she wanted to make a job of it and this great patience with which she waited for her claws to grow was in itself a form of enjoyment.

These young people naturally grow up with ideas different from ours, for they are born for times when we shall no longer be here

The vague torment of ... ambition.

There are two men inside the artist, the poet and the craftsman. One is born a poet. One becomes a craftsman.