The only reason for the existence of a novel is that it does attempt to represent life.

A solitary maple on a woodside flames in single scarlet, recalls nothing so much as the daughter of a noble house dressed for a fancy ball, with the whole family gathered around to admire her before she goes.

Live all you can; it's a mistake not to.

No, no—there are depths, depths! The more I go over it, the more I see in it, and the more I see in it, the more I fear. I don’t know what I don’t see—what I don’t fear!

To kill a human being is, after all, the least injury you can do him.

Nothing, of course, will ever take the place of the good old fashion of 'liking' a work of art or not liking it; the more improved criticism will not abolish that primitive, that ultimate, test.

A swift carriage, of a dark night, rattling with four horses over roads that one can’t see--that’s my idea of happiness.