Does Nature supplement what man advanced? Or does she complete what he began?

To sit and contemplate - to remember the faces of women without desire, to be pleased by the great deeds of men without envy, to be everything and everywhere in sympathy and yet content to remain where and what you are.

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

We are nauseated by the sight of trivial personalities decomposing in the eternity of print.

Moreover, a book is not made of sentences laid end to end, but of sentences built, if an image helps, into arcades or domes.

Without self awareness we are as babies in the cradles.

Literature is no one’s private ground, literature is common ground; let us trespass freely and fearlessly and find our own way for ourselves.