He thought to himself that there could be no greater torture in the world than at the same time to love and to contemn.
As we grow older we become more conscious of the complexity, incoherence, and unreasonableness of human beings; this indeed is the only excuse that offers for the middle-aged or elderly writer, whose...
The sea offers the only broad horizon, and the immense he saw now gave him a peculiar, an indescribable thrill. He felt suddenly elated. Though he did not know it, it was the first time that he had ex...
Self-sacrifice is a passion so overwhelming that beside it even lust and hunger are trifling. It whirls its victim to destruction in the highest affirmation of his personality. The object doesn't matt...
If death ends all, if I have neither to hope for good to come nor to fear evil, I must ask myself what I am here for and how in these circumstances I must conduct myself. Now the answer to one of thes...
Writing is the supreme solace.
Anyone can tell the truth, but only very few of us can make epigrams.
When all things lasted so short a time and nothing mattered very much, it seemed pitiful that men, attaching an absurd importance to trivial objects, should make themselves and one another so unhappy.
We paint from within outward - if we force our vision on the world it calls us great painters; if we don't it ignores us; but we are the same. We don't attach any meaning to greatness or smallness. Wh...
Very few people know where to look for happiness; fewer still find it.
This love was a torment, and he resented bitterly the subjugation in which it held him; he was a prisoner and he longed for freedom.Sometimes he awoke in the morning and felt nothing; his soul leaped,...
This did not surprise him, for he was beginning to realise that he was the creature of a God who appreciated the discomfort of his worshippers.
Then the horrid fact was disclosed that the new head had a mania for general information. He had doubts about the utility of examinations on subjects which had been crammed for the occasion. He wanted...
The writer is more concerned to know than to judge.
The only way to live is to forget that you're going to die. Death is unimportant. The fear of it should never influence a single action of the wise man.
The officers saluted as she passed and gravely bowed. They walked back across the courtyard and got into their chairs. She saw Waddington light a cigarette. A little smoke lost in the air, that was th...
The morning drew on and the sun touched the mist so that it shone whitely like the ghost of snow on a dying star.
The day broke gray and dull. The clouds hung heavily, and there was a rawness in the air that suggested snow. A woman servant came into a room in which a child was sleeping and drew the curtains. She...
Sometimes I think that when we say our honour prevents us from doing this or that we deceive ourselves, and our real motive is vanity.
She loved three things — a joke, aglass of wine, and a handsome man.