Misery and a nameless nostalgic distress possessed him. He was twenty-three, and oh so agonizingly conscious of the fact.
Everyone works for every one else. We can't do without any one.
He had given her the book when it came out, hoping that the poem would tell her what he hadn’t dared to say.
It isn't only art that's incompatible with happiness; it's also science. Science is dangerous; we have to keep it most carefully chained and muzzled.
What man has joined, nature is powerless to put asunder.
You've got to choose between happiness and what people used to call high art. We've sacrificed the high art.