There must be another life, she thought, sinking back into her chair, exasperated. Not in dreams; but here and now, in this room, with living people. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice with her hair blown back; she was about to grasp something that just evaded her. There must be another life, here and now, she repeated. This is too short, too broken. We know nothing, even about ourselves.

It seems as if an age of genius must be succeeded by an age of endeavour; riot and extravagance by cleanliness and hard work.

Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.

Jealousy ... survives every other passion of mankind.

In illness words seem to possess a mystic quality.

The mind must be allowed to settle undisturbed over the object in order to secrete the pearl.

The world wavered and quivered and threatened to burst into flames.