letters are venerable; and the telephone valiant, for the journey is a lonely one, and if bound together by notes and telephones we went in company, perhaps - who knows? - we might talk by the way.

Fear no more, says the heart.

And you wish to be a poet; and you wish to be a lover.

Travelers are much at the mercy of phrases ... vast generalizations formulate in their exposed brains.

Moreover, a book is not made of sentences laid end to end, but of sentences built, if an image helps, into arcades or domes.

Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is despatched—love for instance—we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next.

A million candles burnt in him without his being at the trouble of lighting a single one