To love makes one solitary.

The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging.

... I doubt the capacity of the human animal for being dignified in ceremony.

I will go down with my colours flying.

If behind the erratic gunfire of the press the author felt that there was another kind of criticism, the opinion of people readingfor the love of reading, slowly and unprofessionally, and judging with great sympathy and yet with great severity, might this not improve the quality of his work? And if by our means books were to become stronger, richer, and more varied, that would be an end worth reaching.

Among the tortures and devestations of life is this then - our friends are not able to finish their stories.

I am volatile for one, rigid for another, angular as an icicle in silver, or voluptuous as a candle flame in gold.