The man looks the world full in the face, as if it were made for his uses and fashioned to his liking. The woman takes a sidelong glance at it, full of subtlety, even of suspicion.

[...] the world's notorious indifference. It does not ask people to write poems and novels and hostories; it does not need them. It does not care whether Flaubert finds the right word or whether Carlyle scrupulously verifies this or that fact [...] The world did not say to her as it said to them, Write if you choose; it makes no difference to me. The world said with a guffaw, Write? What's the good of your writing?

Consolation for those moments when you can't tell whether you're the divinest genius or the greatest fool in the world.

There was no treachery too base for the world to commit.