Now that Stevenson is dead I can think of but one English- speaking author who is really keeping his self-respect and sticking forperfection. Of course I refer to that mighty master of language and keen student of human actions and motives, Henry James.

The irregular and intimate quality of things made entirely by the human hand.

A work-room should be like an old shoe; no matter how shabby, it's better than a new one.

What was any art but a mould in which to imprison for a moment the shining elusive element which is life itself - life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose.

This land was an enigma. It was like a horse that no one knows how to break to harness, that runs wild and kicks things to pieces.

In a few hours one could cover that incalculable distance; from the winter country and homely neighbours, to the city where the air trembled like a tuning-fork with unimaginable possibilities.

Personal hatred and family affection are not incompatible; they often flourish and grow strong together.