You cannot cross the narrow bridge of art carrying all its tools in your hands. Some you must leave behind.

Intimacy is a difficult art.

We shall be the mouthpieces of the divine spirit—

Illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth.

I cannot remember my past, my nose, or the colour of my eyes, or what my general opinion of myself is. Only in moments of emergency, at a crossing, at a kerb, the wish to preserve my body springs out and seizes me and stops me , here, before this omnibus. We insist, it seems, on living. Then again, indifference descends.

Her only gift was knowing people almost by instinct, she thought, walking on. If you put her in a room with someone, up went her back like a cat's; or she purred.

It was the intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.