The normal is what you find but rarely. The normal is an ideal. It is a picture that one fabricates of the average characteristics of men, and to find them all in a single man is hardly to be expected.

The rain fell alike upon the just and upon the unjust, and for nothing was there a why and a wherefore.

You know what the critics are. If you tell the truth they only say you're cynical and it does an author no good to get a reputation for cynicism.

There's nothing the world loves more than a ready-made description which they can hang on to a man, and so save themselves all trouble in future.

I can only guess that it made the world he went back to...strangely without meaning. Though he lived in it, though he even enjoyed it, it remained utterly remote. I think it had lost sense for him. In his heart was the reflection of a lovely dream that he could never quite recall.

When you have loved as she has loved, you grow old beautifully.

Just as the painter thinks with his brush and paints the novelist thinks with his story.