The innocent are so few that two of them seldom meet— when they do, their victims lie strewn around.

It is about five o'clock in an evening that the first hour of spring strikes—autumn arrives in the early morning, but spring at the close of a winter day.

It is about five o'clock in an evening that the first hour of spring strikes-autumn arrives in the early morning, but spring at the close of a winter day.

Never to lie is to have no lock to your door, you are never wholly alone.

The heart may think it knows better; the senses know that absence blots people out.

The friend becomes a traitor by breaking, however unwillingly or sadly, out of our own zone. A hard judgement is passed on him, for all the pleas of the heart.

The heart may think it knows better, the senses know that absence blots people out. We really have no absent friends.

First love, with its frantic haughty imagination, swings its object clear of the everyday, over the rut of living, making him all looks, silences, gestures, attitudes, a burning phrase with no context

Autumn arrives in the early morning, but spring at the close of a winter day.

Art, at any rate in a novel, must be indissolubly linked with craft...