Someone said, 'The dead writers are remote from us because we know so much more than they did.' Precisely, and they are that which we know.

We shall not cease from exploration

In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing

What is this self-inside us, this silent observer, severe and speechless critic, who can terrorize us, and urge us onto futile activity, and in the end, judge us still more severely for the errors into which his own reproaches drove us?

As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill.

Before a cat will condescend to treat you as a trusted friend, some little token of esteem is needed, like a dish of cream.

All time is eternal, moving inexorably toward an end which we believe is a result of our actions, but over which our control is mere illusion.