Now he understood. This was death. Death was a silence that gave back no answer.

Readers themselves, I think, contribute to a book. They add their own imaginations, and it is as though the writer only gave them something to work on, and they did the rest.

A woman has got to love a bad man once or twice in her life, to be thankful for a good one.

Now he understood. This was death. Death was a silence that gave back no answer.

people in general are totally unable to detach the personality of a writer from the products of his thinking.

We cannot live without the Earth or apart from it, and something is shrivelled in a man's heart when he turns away from it and concerns himself only with the affairs of men

I had done battle with a great fear and the victory was mine.