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.

Whatever is felt upon the page without being specifically named there — that, one might say, is created.

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

If youth did not matter so much to itself, it would never have the heart to go on.

To note an artist's limitations is but to define his talent.

After all, the supreme virtue in all art is soul, perhaps it is the only thing which gives art a right to be.

A creative writer can do his best only with what lies within the range and character of his deepest sympathies.