We are always children to our mothers.

Real life seems to have no plots.

The plot is not very important to me, though a novel must have one, of course. It's just a line to hang the washing on.

I never know why self-sacrifice is noble. Why is it better to sacrifice oneself than someone else?

A plot is like the bones of a person, not interesting like expression, or signs of experience, but the support of the whole.

I wonder the human race has been so fond of migrations, when the young take so hardly to traveling.

Real charity and real ability never to condemn-the one real virtue-is so often the result of a waking experience that gives a glimpse of what lies beneath things.