Conversation, fastidious goddess, loves blood better than brick, and feasts most subtly on the human will.

And now more than anything I want beautiful prose. I relish it more and more exquisitely.

Night had come—night that she loved of all times, night in which the reflections in the dark pool of the mind shine more clearly than by day.

To enjoy freedom ... we have of course to control ourselves. We must not squander our powers, helplessly and ignorantly, squirting half the house in order to water a single rose.

I often wish I'd got on better with your father,' he said.

But when we sit together, close,’ said Bernard, ‘we melt into each other with phrases. We are edged with mist. We make an unsubstantial territory.

The world wavered and quivered and threatened to burst into flames.