We live as we dream - alone. While the dream disappears, the life continues painfully.

Books may be written in all sorts of places. Verbal inspiration may enter the berth of a mariner on board a ship frozen fast in a river in the middle of a town.

Going home must be like going to render an account.

The dreams of men, the seed of commonwealth, the germs of empires.

Criticism, that fine flower of personal expression in the garden of letters.

All a man can betray is his conscience.

The vision seemed to enter the house with me-the stretcher, the phantom-bearers, the wild crowd of obedient worshippers, the gloom of the forests, the glitter of the reach between the murky bends, the beat of the drum, regular and muffled like the beating of a heart-the heart of a conquering darkness.