
The practical value of succes depends not a little on the way you look at it.

We live as we dream--alone....

Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory, and the truth of every passion wants some pretence to make it live.

Fiction is history, human history, or it is nothing.

Over the lives borne from under the shadow of death there seems to fall the shadow of madness.

The serenity of truth and the peace of death can be only secured through a largeness of contempt embracing all the profitable servitudes of life. He

It is not Justice the servant of men, but accident, hazard, Fortune-the ally of patient Time-that holds an even and scrupulous balance.

The earth seemed unearthly.

The double row of berths yawned black, like graves tenanted by uneasy corpses.

The men, the women, the children; the old with the young, the decrepit with the lusty - all equal before sleep, death's brother.

That faculty of beholding at a hint the face of his desire and the shape of his dream, without which the earth would know no lover and no adventurer.

above - the Council in Europe, you know - mean him to be.' "He turned to

Avoid irritation more than exposure to the sun ... In the tropics one must before everything keep calm.' ...

A task, any task, undertaken in an adventurous spirit acquires the merit of romance.

I do not know whether I have been a good seaman, but I know I have been a very faithful one.

But his soul was mad. Being alone in the wilderness, it had looked within itself and, by heavens I tell you, it had gone mad.

It is a maudlin and indecent verity that comes out through the strength of wine.

And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid.

The air of the New World seems favorable to the art of declamation.

Dark human shapes could be made out in the distance, flitting indistinctly against the gloomy border of the forest,

A diplomatic statement, Lena, is a statement of which everything is true but the sentiment which seems to prompt it.

It was not my strength that wanted nursing, it was my imagination that wanted soothing.

That man seems to have a particular talent for being on the spot whenever there is something picturesque to be done.

There is death in the folds of her skirt and blood about her feet. She is for no man.

Never test another man by your own weakness.

One can't live with one's finger everlastingly on one's pulse.

The artist in his calling of interpreter creates because he must. He is so much of a voice that, for him, silence is like death

Going home must be like going to render an account.

Art is long and life is short, and success is very far off.

The way of even the most jusitifiable revolution is prepared by personal impulses disguised into creeds.

He was easily sorry for people.

There can be no life without faith and love - faith in a human heart, love of a human being! That

To cut oneself entirely from one's kind is impossible. To live in a desert one must be a saint.

I like what is in the work
the chance to find yourself.

I am afraid that if you want to go down into history you'll have to do something for it.

The part of the inexplicable should be al lowed for in appraising the conduct of men in a world where no explanation is final.

Yet, when one thinks of it, diplomacy without force is a but a rotten reed to lean upon.

To the destruction of what is.

I take it that what all men are really after is some form or perhaps only some formula of peace.

Leading questions as to my acquaintances in the sepulchral city, and so on. His little eyes glittered

I must live until I die, mustn't I?

His face was like the autumn sky, overcast one moment and bright the next.

The humblest craft that floats makes its appeal to a seaman by the faithfulness of her life.

All the pilgrims rushed out to see. I remained, and went on with my dinner. I believe I was considered brutally callous. However, I did not eat much.

Your strength is just an accident owed to the weakness of others.

Everything belonged to him
but that was a trifle. The thing to know was what he belonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed him for their own.

An author writes only half the book. The rest is written by readers.

Art itself my be defined as a single-minded attempt to render the highest kind of justice to the visible universe.

I always went my own road and on my own legs where I had a mind to go

He had entered by then the broad, human path of inconsistencies.

There are things you find nothing about in books