The sea was indistinguishable from the sky, except that the sea was slightly creased as if a cloth had wrinkles in it.

I like going from one lighted room to another, such is my brain to me; lighted rooms.

It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.

Rhoda comes now, having slipped in while we were not looking. She must have made a tortuous course, taking cover now behind a waiter, now behind some ornamental pillar, so as to put off as long as possible the shock of recognition, so as to be secure for one more moment to rock her petals in her basin. We wake her. We torture her. She dreads us, she despises us, yet she comes cringing to our sides because for al our cruelty there is always some name, some face which sheds a radiance, which lights up her pavements and makes it possible for her to replenish her dreams.

I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.

It seems as if an age of genius must be succeeded by an age of endeavour; riot and extravagance by cleanliness and hard work.

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