Women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time.

A self that goes on changing is a self that goes on living.

How are we to account for the strange human craving for the pleasure of feeling afraid which is so much involved in our love of ghost stories?

With my cheek leant upon the window pane I like to fancy that I am pressing as closely as can be upon the massy wall of time, which is forever lifting and pulling and letting fresh spaces of life in upon us. May it be mine to taste the moment before it has spread itself over the rest of the world! Let me taste the newest and the freshest.

For now she need not think of anybody. She coud be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of - to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others... and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures.

The word-coining genius, as if thought plunged into a sea of words and came up dripping.

The sea was indistinguishable from the sky, except that the sea was slightly creased as if a cloth had wrinkles in it.