God forbid that any book should be banned. The practice is as indefensible as infanticide.

There is no wider gulf in the universe than yawns between those on the hither and thither side of vital experience.

I cannot see that art is anything less than a way of making joys perpetual.

There are acacias, a graceful species amusingly devitalized by sentimentality, this kind drooping its leaves with the grace of a young widow bowed in controllable grief, this one obscuring them with a smooth silver as of placid tears. They please, like the minor French novelists of the eighteenth century, by suggesting a universe in which nothing cuts deep.

No great thing happens suddenly.

Getting a divorce is nearly always as cheerful and useful an occupation as breaking valuable china.

I have no faith in the sense of comforting beliefs which persuade me that all my troubles are blessings in disguise.