Let it be fact, one feels, or let it be fiction; the imagination will not serve under two masters simultaneously.

When I cannot see words curling like rings of smoke round me I am in darkness—I am nothing.

Half the time she did things not simply, not for themselves; but to make people think this or that; perfect idiocy she knew for no one was ever for a second taken in.

The strange thing about life is that though the nature of it must have been apparent to every one for hundreds of years, no one has left any adequate account of it.

Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.

The word-coining genius, as if thought plunged into a sea of words and came up dripping.

Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more.