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.

If there is to be any romance in marriage woman must be given every chance to earn a decent living at other occupations. Otherwise no man can be sure that he is loved for himself alone, and that his wife did not come to the Registry Office because she had no luck at the Labour Exchange.

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

She saw she had fallen into the hands of one of those doctors who have strayed too far from apparent in the direction of the soul.

I wonder if we are all wrong about each other, if we are just composing unwritten novels about the people we meet?

Writing has nothing to do with communication between person and person, only with communication between different parts of a person's mind.

Mozart eliminates the idea of haste from life. His airs could not lag as they make their journey through the listener's attention; they are not the right shape for loitering. But it is as true that they never rush, they are never headlong or helter-skelter, they splash no mud, they raise no dust.