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

Twice Flush had done his utmost to kill his enemy; twice he had failed. And why had he failed, he asked himself? Because he loved Miss Barrett. Looking up at her from under his eyebrows as she lay, severe and silent on the sofa, he knew that he must love her for ever. Things are not simple but complex. If he bit Mr. Browning he bit her too. Hatred is not hatred; hatred is also love.

I like books whose virtue is all drawn together in a page or two. I like sentences that don't budge though armies cross them.

What a labour writing is ... making one sentence do the work of a page; that's what I call hard work.

To enjoy freedom we have to control ourselves.

Wind and storm colored July. Also, in the middle, cadaverous, awful, lay the grey puddle in the courtyard, when holding an envelope in my hand, I carried a message. I came to the puddle. I could not cross it. Identity failed me. We are nothing, I said, and fell. I was blown like a feather. I was wafted down tunnels. Then very gingerly, I pushed my foot across. I laid my hand against a brick wall. I returned very painfully, drawing myself back into my body over the grey, cadaverous space of the puddle. This is life then to which I am committed.

Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.