Ransack the language as he might, words failed him. He wanted another landscape, and another tongue.

Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.

In any case life is but a procession of shadows, and God knows why it is that we embrace them so eagerly, and see them depart with such anguish, being shadows.

war is a man's game ... the killing machine has a gender and it is male.

He lay on his chair with his hands clasped above his paunch not reading, or sleeping, but basking like a creature gorged with existence.

At last she shut the book sharply, lay back, and drew a deep breath, expressive of the wonder which always marks the transition from the imaginary world to the real world.

Women and fiction remain, so far as I am concerned, unsolved problems.