In a world of fugitives, the person taking the opposite direction will appear to run away.

Most contemporary novels are not really "written." They obtain what reality they have largely from an accurate rendering of the noises that human beings currently make in their daily simple needs of communication; and what part of a novel is not composed of these noises consists of a prose which is no more alive than that of a competent newspaper writer or government official. A prose that is altogether alive demands something of the reader that the ordinary novel-reader is not prepared to give.

The darkness declares the glory of light.

The very existence of libraries affords the best evidence that we may yet have hope for the future of man

A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter.

Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.

One starts an action simply because one must do something.