That complete statement which is literature.

... the public and the private worlds are inseparably connected ... the tyrannies and servilities of the one are the tyrannies and servilities of the other.

He called her a melon, a pineapple, an olive tree, an emerald, and a fox in the snow all in the space of three seconds; he did not know whether he had heard her, tasted her, seen her, or all three together.

For the young people could not talk. And why should they? Shout, embrace, swing, be up at dawn.

There was a day when I liked writing letters -- it has gone. Unfortunately the passion for getting them remains.

If the best of one's feelings means nothing to the person most concerned in those feelings, what reality is left us?

The mind is the most capricious of insects — flitting, fluttering.