Like" and "like" and "like"--but what is the thing that lies beneath the semblance of the thing?

Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost.

As I grow old I hate the writing of letters more and more, and like getting them better and better.

All looked distant and peaceful and strange. The shore seemed refined, far away, unreal. Already the little distance they had sailed had put them far from it and given it the changed look, the composed look, of something receding in which one has no longer any part.

It is useless to read Greek in translation; translators can but offer us a vague equivalent.

Talents of the novelist: ... observation of character, analysis of emotion, people's feelings, personal relations.

This self now as I leant over the gate looking down over fields rolling in waves of colour beneath me made no answer. He threw up no opposition. He attempted no phrase. His fist did not form. I waited. I listened. Nothing came, nothing. I cried then with a sudden conviction of complete desertion. Now there is nothing. No fin breaks the waste of this immeasurable sea. Life has destroyed me. No echo comes when I speak, no varied words. This is more truly death than the death of friends, than the death of youth.