I recall my fleeting instants in Savannah as the taste of a cup charged to the brim.

It had been agreed between them that lighted candles at wayside inns, in strange countries amid mountain scenery, gave the evening meal a peculiar poetry.

An Englishman's never so natural as when he's holding his tongue.

If the artist is necessarily sensitive, does that sensitiveness form in its essence a state constantly liable to shade off into the morbid? Does this liability, moreover, increase in proportion as the effort is great and the ambition intense?

I am incapable of telling you not to feel. Feel, feel, I say - feel for all you're worth, and even if it half kills you, for that is the only way to live.

I adore adverbs; they are the only qualifications I really much respect.

There were several ways of understanding her: there was what she said, and there was what she meant, and there was something between the two, that was neither.