She had the perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very, dangerous to live even one day.

The thing about Proust is his combination of the utmost sensibility with the utmost tenacity. He searches out these butterfly shades to the last grain. He is as tough as catgut and as evanescent as a butterfly's bloom.

For beyond the difficulty of communicating oneself, there is the supreme difficulty of being oneself.

He called her a melon, a pineapple, an olive tree, an emerald, and a fox in the snow all in the space of three seconds; he did not know whether he had heard her, tasted her, seen her, or all three together.

There was a serenity about him always that had the look of innocence, when, technically, the word was no longer applicable.

Jealousy ... survives every other passion of mankind.

Fatigue is the safest sleeping draught.