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

Does Nature supplement what man advanced? Or does she complete what he began?

For once the disease of reading has laid upon the system it weakens so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the ink pot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing.

Oh, I am in love with life!

When the shriveled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning, it satisfies the senses amazingly.

Moreover, a book is not made of sentences laid end to end, but of sentences built, if an image helps, into arcades or domes.

For this is the truth about our soul, he thought, who fish-like inhabits deep seas and plies among obscurities threading her way between the boles of giant weeds, over sun-flickered spaces and on and on into gloom, cold, deep, inscrutable; suddenly she shoots to the surface and sports on the wind-wrinkled waves; that is, has a positive need to brush, scrape, kindle herself, gossiping.