Without self awareness we are as babies in the cradles.

I’m not clear enough in the head to feel anything but varieties of dull anger and arrows of sadness.

The thing about Proust is his combination of the utmost sensibility with the utmost tenacity. He searches out these butterfly shades to the last grain. He is as tough as catgut and as evanescent as a butterfly's bloom.

Tom's great yellow bronze mask all draped upon an iron framework. An inhibited, nerve-drawn; dropped face - as if hung on a scaffold of heavy private brooding; and thought.

I see through most people; I'm hardly ever wrong. I see at once what they've got in them.

The extraordinary woman depends on the ordinary woman.

Truth had run through my fingers. Every drop had escaped.