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

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

Stepmothers in books usually behave very spitefully towards the children entrusted to them. But he was now learning by his own experience that in real life this does not always happen.

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

There is more here than meets the eye.

No art or learning is to be pursued halfheartedly...and any art worth learning will certainly reward more or less generously the effort made to study it.

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.