A million candles burnt in him without his being at the trouble of lighting a single one

One can only believe entirely, perhaps, in what one cannot see.

Did it matter then, she asked herself, walking towards Bond Street, did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely? All this must go on without her; did she resent it; or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely?

The poet gives us his essence, but prose takes the mould of the body and mind entire.

Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.

The extraordinary woman depends on the ordinary woman.

The future is dark, which is the best thing the future can be, I think.