Oh, let me be mawkish for the nonce! I am so tired of being cynical.

I still dwelled deep in my elected paradise--a paradise whose skies were the color of hell-flames--but still a paradise.

Loneliness as a situation can be corrected, but as a state of mind it is an incurable illness.

I know more than I can express in words, and the little I can express would not have been expressed, had I not known more.

I have often noticed that after I had bestowed on the characters of my novels some treasured item of my past, it would pine away in the artificial world where I had so abruptly placed it.

All my stories are webs of style and none seems at first blush to contain much kinetic matter.

I see nothing for the treatment of my misery but the melancholy and very local palliative of articulate art.