You send a boy to school in order to make friends - the right sort.

Travelers are much at the mercy of phrases ... vast generalizations formulate in their exposed brains.

For there is a virtue in truth; it has an almost mystic power. Like radium, it seems to give off forever and ever grains of energy, atoms of light.

Books are the mirrors of the soul.

For this moment, this one moment, we are together. I press you to me. Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob.

Why does one write these books after all? The drudgery, the misery, the grind, are forgotten everytime; and one launches another, and it seems sheer joy and buoyancy.

For pleasure has no relish unless we share it.