The history of every country begins in the heart of a man or a woman

If youth did not matter so much to itself it would never have the heart to go on

The heart of another is a dark forest, always, no matter how close it has been to one's own.

Trees were so rare in that country, and they had to make such a hard fight to grow, that we used to feel anxious about them, and visit them as if they were persons. It must have been the scarcity of detail in that tawny landscape that made detail so precious.

He had the uneasy manner of a man who is not among his own kind, and who has not seen enough of the world to feel that all people are in some sense his own kind

Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.