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.

There seemed to be nothing to see; no fences, no creeks or trees, no hills or fields. If there was a road, I could not make it out in the faint starlight. There was nothing but land: not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made.

Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.

In this world people have to pay an extortionate price for any exceptional gift whatever.

The sky was a midnight-blue, like warm, deep, blue water, and the moon seemed to lie on it like a water-lily, floating forward with an invisible current.

I had killed a big snake. I was now a big fellow.

Desire is creation, is the magical element in that process. If there were an instrument by which to measure desire, one could foretell achievement.