I now see that sorrow, being the supreme emotion of which man is capable, is at once the type and test of all great art.

A man's face is his autobiography. A woman's face is her work of fiction.

A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.

I see the moon like a clipped piece of silver. Like gilded bees the stars cluster round her.

The quivering, ardent sunlight showed him the lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing.

I find it harder and harder every day to live up to my blue china.

A publisher is simply a useful middle-man.