Style is a very simple matter; it is all rhythm. Once you get that, you can't use the wrong words. But on the other hand here am I sitting after half the morning, crammed with ideas, and visions, and so on, and can't dislodge them, for lack of the right rhythm. Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than any words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it.

It is probable that both in life and in art the values of a woman are not the values of a man.

One has to secrete a jelly in which to slip quotations down people's throats - and one always secretes too much jelly.

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

A thing there was that mattered; a thing, wreathed about with chatter, defaced, obscured in her own life, let drop every day in corruption, lies, chatter. This he had preserved. Death was defiance. Death was an attempt to communicate; people feeling the impossibility of reaching the centre which, mystically, evaded them; closeness drew apart; rapture faded, one was alone. There was an embrace in death.

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

The best letters of our time are precisely those that can never be published.