It was strange to have no self-to be like a little boy left alone in a big house, who knew that now he could do anything he wanted to do, but found that there was nothing that he wanted to do.

There's no beauty without poignancy and there's no poignancy without the feeling that it's going, men, names, books, houses--bound for dust--mortal--

Tired, tired with nothing, tired with everything, tired with the world’s weight he had never chosen to bear.

She was dazzling-- alight; it was agony to comprehend her beauty in a glance.

Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away.

When the first-rate author wants an exquisite heroine or a lovely morning, he finds that all the superlatives have been worn shoddy by his inferiors. It should be a rule that bad writers must start with plain heroines and ordinary mornings, and, if they are able, work up to something better.

The afternoon had made them tranquil for a while, as if to give them a deep memory for the long parting the next day promised.