The final test of a novel will be our affection for it, as it is the test of our friends, and of anything else which we cannot define. - E. M. Forster

[...] it is now only in letters I write what I feel: not in literature any more, and I seldom say it, because I keep trying to be amusing.

She wandered as though in a dream, through the wavering sea of barley, touched with crimson stains of poppies. All unobserved, he came to her…There came from his lips no wordy protestations such as formal lovers use. No eloquence was his, nor did he suffer for lack of it. He simply enfolded her in his manly arms…

I would rather be a coward than brave because people hurt you when you are brave.