But our hatred is almost indistinguishable from our love.
It is equally vain,” she thought, “for you to think you can protect me, or for me to think I can worship you. The light of truth beats upon us without shadow, and the light of truth is damnably unbecoming to us both.
Women alone stir my imagination.
Really I don't like human nature unless all candied over with art.
It is no use trying to sum people up.
How are we to account for the strange human craving for the pleasure of feeling afraid which is so much involved in our love of ghost stories?