Is it not love that knows how to make smooth things rough and rough things smooth?

All you who sleep tonight Far from the ones you love, No hand to left or right, An emptiness above-- Know that you aren't alone. The whole world shares your tears, Some for two nights or one, And some for all your years.

You can talk good ideas out of existence.

I don't think people give Indian society enough credit. We may not like to talk much about things but we do, basically, want to live and let live.

But I too hate long books: the better, the worse. If they're bad they merely make me pant with the effort of holding them up for a few minutes. But if they're good, I turn into a social moron for days, refusing to go out of my room, scowling and growling at interruptions, ignoring weddings and funerals, and making enemies out of friends. I still bear the scars of Middlemarch.

I have a reputation for being hermitlike. I'm not. I'm just obsessed with my work.

I sometimes seem to myself to wander around the world merely accumulating material for future nostalgias.