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.
Rebecca WestThe adventure is over. Everything gets over, and nothing is ever enough. Except the part you carry with you.
Rebecca WestBabbitt as a book was planless; its end arrived apparently because its author had come to the end of the writing-pad, or rather, one might suspect from its length, to the end of all writing-pads then on the market.
Rebecca WestNobody ever wrote a good book simply by collecting a number of accurate facts and valid ideas.
Rebecca West