Evening had fallen. A rim of the young moon cleft the pale waste of sky line, the rim of a silver hoop embedded in grey sand: and the tide was flowing in fast to the land with a low whisper of her waves, islanding a few last figures in distant pools.

I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppled masonry, and time one livid final flame.

There's no friends like the old friends.

Human society is the embodiment of changeless laws which the whimsicalities and circumstances of men and women involve and overwrap. The realm of literature is the realm of these accidental manners and humours--a spacious realm; and the true literary artist concerns himself mainly with them.

My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out.

That ideal reader suffering from an ideal insomnia.

What's in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours.