The hair of his face, on the contrary, carroty and flaming, resembled a growth of copper wire clipped short to the line of the lip; while, no matter how close he shaved, fiery metallic gleams passed, when he moved his head, over the surface of his cheeks.

For all that has been said of the love that certain natures (on shore) have professed for it, for all the celebrations it has been the object of in prose and song, the sea has never been friendly to man. At most it has been the accomplice of human restlessness.

A historian may be an artist too, and a novelist is a historian, the preserver, the keeper, the expounder, of human experience.

A writer without interest or sympathy for the foibles of his fellow man is not conceivable as a writer.

I like what is in the work -- the chance to find yourself.

He hated all this, and somehow he couldn't get away.

Gossip is what no one claims to like, but everybody enjoys.