The good author is he who contemplates without marked joy or excessive sorrow the adventures of his soul amongst criticisms.

The very young have, properly speaking, no moments. It is the privilege of early youth to live in advance of its days in all the beautiful continuity of hope which knows no pauses and no introspection.

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

Your strength is just an accident owed to the weakness of others.

One can't live with one's finger everlastingly on one's pulse.

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

In some inland post feel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round him--all that mysterious life of the wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild men. There's no initiation either into such mysteries. He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is detestable. And it has a fascination, too, which goes to work upon him. The fascination of the abomination--you know. Imagine the growing regrets, the longing to escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate.