... I doubt the capacity of the human animal for being dignified in ceremony.

Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.

Now, aged 50, I'm just poised to shoot forth quite free straight and undeflected my bolts whatever they are.

Novels so often provide an anodyne and not an antidote, glide one into torpid slumbers instead of rousing one with a burning brand.

She had known happiness, exquisite happiness, intense happiness, and it silvered the rough waves a little more brightly, as daylight faded, and the blue went out of the sea and it rolled in waves of pure lemon which curved and swelled and broke upon the beach and the ecstasy burst in her eyes and waves of pure delight raced over the floor of her mind and she felt, It is enough! It is enough!

It is no use trying to sum people up. One must follow hints, not exactly what is said, nor yet entirely what is done.

Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?