文之奇者，如风云之变态，不可端倪。
文章的奇特之处，如同风云变幻，不可捉摸。
他的美德我都不喜欢。我喜欢的坏他也都没有。
In literature, borders disappear; what remains is the universal language of human emotions.
熄灭了吧，熄灭了吧，短促的烛光！人生不过是一个行走的影子，一个在舞台上指手划脚的拙劣的伶人，登场片刻，就在无声无臭中悄然退下；它是一个愚人所讲的故事，充满着喧哗和骚动，却找不到一点意义。
We are not born for ourselves alone.
Every life is a novel waiting to be written.
The world is not dialectical—it is sworn to extremes, not to equilibrium, sworn to radical antagonism, not to reconciliation or synthesis.