Bokelskere.no

He was the sort of fellow who can do anything for somebody else, and nothing for himself. There are lots like that among workingmen. They aren't trained by success to a sort of systematic selfishness.

«Well, the habit of living with ideas grows on one, I suppose, just as inevitably as the more cheerful habit of living with various ladies. There's something to be said for both.»

«Always very different from the other college boys, wasn't he? Always had something in his voice, in his eyes... One seemed to catch glimpses of an unusual background behind his shoulders when he came into the room.»

Fellows like Outland don't carry much luggage, yet one of the things you know them by is the sumptuous generosity—and when they are gone, all you can say of them is that they departed leaving princely gifts.

Their ways parted, and both went on more cheerful than when they met.

When she began her immortal song, one felt that she was right for the part, the pure lyrics soprano that suits it best, and in her voice there was something fresh and delicate, like deep wood flowers.

St. Peter knew that the poor boy had seasons of desperate unhappiness. His disappointed vanity ate away at his vitals like the Spartan boy's fox, and only the deep lines in his young forehead and the twitching at the corners of his mouth showed that he suffered.

Art and religion (they are the same thing, in the end, of course) have given man the only happiness he has ever had.

"I dislike floridity when it is beaten up to cover the lack of something, to take the place of something. I never disliked it when it came from exuberance. Then it isn't floridness, it's merely strong colour."

"That's why I kept quiet. Support can be too able—certainly too fluent."