I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart.

So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.

Better let it all alone in the depths of her heart and the depths of the sea.

Men she knew'? - she had conceded vaguely to herself that all men who had ever been in love with her were her friends.

Now the standard cure for one who is sunk is to consider those in actual destitution or physical suffering—this is an all-weather beatitude for gloom in general and fairly salutary day-time advice for everyone. But at three o’clock in the morning, a forgotten package has the same tragic importance as a death sentence, and the cure doesn’t work—and in a real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning, day after day.

I'm not much like myself any more.

Great art is the contempt of a great man for small art.