I want the concentration and the romance, and the worlds all glued together, fused, glowing: have no time to waste any more on prose.

Long ago I realized that no other person would be to me what you are.

With twice his wits, she had to see things through his eyes -- one of the tragedies of married life.

But words have been used too often; touched and turned, and left exposed to the dust of the street. The words we seek hang close to the tree. We come at dawn and find them sweet beneath the leaf.

Biography is to give a man some kind of shape after his death.

Yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.

Who shall blame him? Who will not secretly rejoice when the hero puts his armour off, and halts by the window and gazes at his wife and son, who, very distant at first, gradually come closer and closer, till lips and book and head are clearly before him, though still lovely and unfamiliar from the intensity of his isolation and the waste of ages and the perishing of the stars, and finally putting his pipe in his pocket and bending his magnificent head before her—who will blame him if he does homage to the beauty of the world?