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.

I grow numb; I grow stiff. How shall I break up this numbness which discredits my sympathetic heart?

To read a novel is a difficult and complex art. You must be capable not only of great fineness of perception, but of great boldness of imagination.

To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.

The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.

To look life in the face, always, to look life in the face, and to know it for what it is...at last, to love it for what it is, and then, to put it away.

Our apparitions, the things you know us by, are simply childish. Beneath it is all dark, it is all spreading, it is unfathomably deep; but now and again we rise to the surface and that is what you see us by.