In books we never find anything but ourselves. Strangely enough, that always gives us great pleasure, and we say the author is a genius.

Time cools, time clarifies; no mood can be maintained quite unaltered through the course of hours.

Yes, they are carnal, both of them, love and death, and therein lies their terror and their great magic!

A solitary, unused to speaking of what he sees and feels, has mental experiences which are at once more intense and less articulate than those of a gregarious man.

One has the idea of a stupid man as perfectly healthy and ordinary, and of illness as making one refined and clever and unusual.

Time has no divisions to mark its passage, there is never a thunder-storm or blare of trumpets to announce the beginning of a new month or year. Even when a new century begins it is only we mortals who ring bells and fire off pistols.

A man’s dying is more the survivors’ affair than his own.