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

The only obligation to which in advance we may hold a novel, without incurring the accusation of being arbitrary, is that it be interesting.

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.

Until you try, you don't know what you can't do.

What is either a picture or a novel that is not character?

The fatal futility of Fact.

My sole wish is to frustrate as utterly as possible the post-mortem exploiter.