Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things. Still, life had a way of adding day to day

I see through most people; I'm hardly ever wrong. I see at once what they've got in them.

Up here my eyes are green leaves, unseeing.

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

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

I like the unreality of your mind; the whole thing is very splendid and voluptuous and absurd.

To whom can I expose the urgency of my own passion?…There is nobody—here among these grey arches, and moaning pigeons, and cheerful games and tradition and emulation, all so skilfully organised to prevent feeling alone.