For a time I would feel I belonged still to a world of straightforward facts; but the feeling would not last long. Something would turn up to scare it away.

It occurred to me that my speech or my silence, indeed any action of mine, would be a mere futility.

And this also," said Marlow suddenly, "has been one of the dark places of the earth.

Art is long and life is short, and success is very far off.

And perhaps in this is the whole difference; perhaps all the wisdom, and all truth, and all sincerity, are just compressed into that inappreciable moment of time in which we step over the threshold of the invisible.

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

All a man can betray is his conscience.