Remorse ... is one of the many afflictions for which time finds a cure.

I can't think why I was cursed with this inordinate desire to write, if the high gods weren't going to give me some more adquate means of expressing myself than that which my present pedestrian prose affords.

But questioning does not mean the end of loving, and loving does not mean the abnegation of intelligence

we are so little, so ignorant, so feeble an infant race crawling on a planet between immensities we haven't even begun to understand, that really we have no grounds for either congratulation or despair.

I am fierce for work. Without work I am nothing.

why haven't we seventy lives? One is no use.

But to write - that is grief and labor; and to read what one has written - how unlike the story as one saw it; how dull, how spirtless - that is enough to send one weeping to bed.