I will achieve in my life - Heaven grant that it be not long - some gigantic amalgamation between the two discrepancies so hideously apparent to me. Out of my suffering I will do it. I will knock. I will enter.

Conversation, fastidious goddess, loves blood better than brick, and feasts most subtly on the human will.

We insist, it seems, on living.

For if Chloe likes Olivia and Mary Carmichael knows how to express it she will light a torch in that vast chamber where nobody has yet been.

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.

There is no room for the impurities of literature in an essay.

Books are the mirrors of the soul.