The human heart is vast enough to contain all the world.

It's only those who do nothing that make no mistakes, I suppose.

The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil water-way leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed somber under an overcast sky--seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness.

It is a maudlin and indecent verity that comes out through the strength of wine.

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

I have been called romantic. Well, that can't be helped. But stay. I seem to remember that I have been called a realist also. And as that charge too can be made out, let us try to live up to it, at whatever cost, for a change.

Who would care to question the ground of forgiveness or compassion.