The memories of long love gather like drifting snow, poignant as the mandarin ducks who float side by side in sleep.

People who do not get into scrapes are a great deal less interesting than those who do.

You that in far-off countries of the sky can dwell secure, look back upon me here; for I am weary of this frail world's decay.

A night of endless dreams, inconsequent and wild, is this my life; none more worth telling than the rest.

Foolish indeed are those who trust to fortune.

Old age is a disease from which there is no recovery but the old nun's recent attack had certainly been brought on chiefly by the fatigue of so much travelling.

I have a theory of my own about what the art of the novel is, and how it came into being....It happens because the storyteller's own experience...has moved him to an emotion so passionate that he can no longer keep it shut up in his heart.