History repeats itself, but the special call of an art which has passed away is never reproduced. It is as utterly gone out of the world as the song of a destroyed wild bird.
No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one’s existence – that which makes its truth, its meaning – its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream – alone.
To a teacher of languages there comes a time when the world is but a place of many words and man appears a mere talking animal not much more wonderful than a parrot.
What is a novel if not a conviction of our fellow men’s existence strong enough to take upon itself a form of imagined life clearer than reality and whose accumulated verisimilitude of selected episodes puts to shame the pride of documentary history.
Any work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art should carry its justification in every line.
Each blade of grass has its spot on earth whence it draws its life, its strength; and so is man rooted to the land from which he draws his faith together with his life.
My task, which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word, to make you hear, to make you feel – it is, before all, to make you see.
The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much.
The true peace of God begins at any spot a thousand miles from the nearest land.
It is not the clear-sighted who rule the world. Great achievements are accomplished in a blessed, warm fog.
The sea has never been friendly to man. At most it has been the accomplice of human restlessness.
A man that is born falls into a dream like a man who falls into the sea. If he tries to climb out into the air as inexperienced people endeavor to do, he drowns.
The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil water-way leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed somber under an overcast sky – seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness.
There is nothing more enticing, disenchanting, and enslaving than the life at sea.
A writer without interest or sympathy for the foibles of his fellow man is not conceivable as a writer.
We live in the flicker – may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling! But darkness was here yesterday.
A writing may be lost; a lie may be written; but what the eye has seen is truth and remains in the mind!
The scrupulous and the just, the noble, humane, and devoted natures; the unselfish and the intelligent may begin a movement – but it passes away from them. They are not the leaders of a revolution. They are its victims.
Let a fool be made serviceable according to his folly.
All a man can betray is his conscience.