There is no room for the impurities of literature in an essay.

It is no use trying to sum people up. One must follow hints, not exactly what is said, nor yet entirely what is done.

Now, aged 50, I'm just poised to shoot forth quite free straight and undeflected my bolts whatever they are.

Up here my eyes are green leaves, unseeing.

Tragedies come in the hungry hours.

Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day.

What a labour writing is ... making one sentence do the work of a page; that's what I call hard work.