Travelers are much at the mercy of phrases ... vast generalizations formulate in their exposed brains.

... pure honesty is a doubtful quality; it means often lack of imagination.

For this moment, this one moment, we are together. I press you to me. Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob.

With twice his wits, she had to see things through his eyes -- one of the tragedies of married life.

All extremes of feeling are allied to madness.

Listening (had there been any one to listen) from the upper rooms of the empty house only gigantic chaos streaked with lightning could have been heard tumbling and tossing, as the winds and waves disported themselves like the amorphous bulks of leviathans whose brows are pierced by no light of reason, and mounted one on top of another, and lunged and plunged in the darkness or the daylight (for night and day, month and year ran shapelessly together) in idiot games, until it seemed as if the universe were battling and tumbling, in brute confusion and wanton lust aimlessly by itself.

Truth had run through my fingers. Every drop had escaped.