It is as if Emily Brontë could tear up all that we know human beings by, and fill these unrecognizable transparencies with such a gust of life that they transcend reality.

... I doubt the capacity of the human animal for being dignified in ceremony.

The telephone, which interrupts the most serious conversations and cuts short the most weighty observations, has a romance of its own.

How far we are going to read a poet when we can read about a poet is a problem to lay before biographers.

Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost. Life would split asunder without them. 'Come to tea, come to dinner, what's the truth of the story? have you heard the news? life in the capital is wonderful; the Russian dancers....' These are our stays and props. These lace our days together and make of life a perfect globe.

They lack suggestive power. And when a book lacks suggestive power, however hard it hits the surface of the mind it cannot penetrate within.

If it were now to die, 'twere now to be most happy.