It was a grey day, that least fleshly of all weathers; a day of dreams and far hopes and clear visions. It was a day easily associated with those abstract truths and purities that dissolve in the sunshine or fade out in mocking laughter by the light of the moon. The trees and clouds were carved in classical severity; the sounds of the countryside had harmonized to a monotone, metallic as a trumpet, breathless as the Grecian urn.

It occurred to me that there was no difference between men, in intelligence or race, so profound as the difference between the sick and the well.

He must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about...like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees.

She laughed with thrilling scorn. "Sophisticated-God, I'm sophisticated!

It is sadder to find the past again and find it inadequate to the present than it is to have it elude you and remain forever a harmonious conception of memory.

To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their (W/E Egg) dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.

You don’t know what a trial it is to be —like me. I've got to keep my face like steel in the street to keep men from winking at me.