There is something haunting in the light of the moon.

You shall judge a man by his foes as well as by his friends.

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

When one has got to make correct entries, one comes to hate those savages--hate them to the death.

Everything belonged to him--but that was a trifle. The thing to know was what he belonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed him for their own.

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.

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