How does one kill fear, I wonder? How do you shoot a specter through the heart, slash off its spectral head, take it by its spectral throat?

Any work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art should carry its justification in every line.

Only in men's imagination does every truth find an effective and undeniable existence. Imagination, not invention, is the supreme master of art as of life.

Perhaps life is just that... a dream and a fear.

We looked at the venerable stream not in the vivid flush of a short day that comes and departs forever, but in the august light of abiding memories.

But his soul was mad. Being alone in the wilderness, it had looked within itself and, by heavens I tell you, it had gone mad.

As to honor - you know - it's a very fine mediaeval inheritance which women never got hold of. It wasn't theirs.