But No One Came. Because No One

A Novel Is An Impression, Not An Argument; And There The Matter Must Rest.

My Eyes Were Dazed By You For A Little, And That Was All.

Meanwhile, The Trees Were Just As Green As Before; The Birds Sang And The Sun Shone As Clearly Now As Ever. The Familiar Surroundings Had Not Darkened Because Of Her Grief, Nor Sickened Because Of Her Pain. She Might Have Seen That What Had Bowed Her Head So Profoundly -the Thought Of The World's Concern At Her Situation- Was Found On An Illusion. She Was Not An Existence, An Experience, A Passion, A Structure Of Sensations, To Anybody But Herself.

Many...have Learned That The Magnitude Of Lives Is Not As To Their External Displacements, But As To Their Subjective Experiences. The Impressionable Peasant Leads A Larger, Fuller, More Dramatic Life Than The Pachydermatous King.

A Woman Would Rather Visit Her Own Grave Than The Place Where She Has Been Young And Beautiful After She Is Aged And Ugly.