In the empty immensity of earth, sky, and water, there she was, incomprehensible, firing into a continent.

The vilest scramble for loot that ever disfigured the history of human conscience.

He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is detestable. And it has a fascination, too, which goes to work upon him. The fascination of the abomination--you know.

What is a novel if not a conviction of our fellow men's existence strong enough to take upon itself a form of imagined life clearer than reality and whose accumulated verisimilitude of selected episodes puts to shame the pride of documentary history.

The last thing a woman will consent to in a man whom she loves, or on whom she simply depends, is want of courage.

And perhaps in this is the whole difference; perhaps all the wisdom, and all truth, and all sincerity, are just compressed into that inappreciable moment of time in which we step over the threshold of the invisible.

I take it that what all men are really after is some form or perhaps only some formula of peace.