We seem to be riding on the top of the highest mast of the tallest ship; and yet at the same time we know that nothing of this sort matters; love is not proved thus, nor great achievements completed thus; so that we sport with the moment and preen our feathers in it lightly.

The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging.

Really I don't like human nature unless all candied over with art.

I am not so gifted as at one time seemed likely.

For pleasure has no relish unless we share it.

I was lying in bed this morning and saying to myself, 'the remarkable thing about Ethel is her stupendous self-satisfaction' when in came your letter to confirm this profound psychological observation. How delighted I was!

Style is a very simple matter; it is all rhythm. Once you get that, you can't use the wrong words.