But our hatred is almost indistinguishable from our love.

Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)

After all, what is a lovely phrase? One that has mopped up as much Truth as it can hold.

. . . clumsiness is often mated with a love of solitude.

Peace was the third emotion. Love. Hate. Peace. Three emotions made the ply of human life.

every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works, yet we require critics to explain the one and biographers to expound the other. That time hangs heavy on people's hands is the only explanation of the monstrous growth.

Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.