For [D.H.] Lawrence, existence was one continuous convalescence; it was as though he were newly reborn from a mortal illness every day of his life. What these convalescent eyes saw, his most casual speech would reveal.

Words form the thread on which we string our experiences.

Every civilization is, among other things, an arrangement for domesticating the passions and setting them to do useful work.

Words are magical in the way they affect the minds of those who use them.

The critics don't interest me because they're concerned with what's past and done, while I'm concerned with what comes next.

Science is not enough, religion is not enough, art is not enough, politics and economics are not enough, nor is love, nor is duty, nor is action however disinterested, nor, however sublime, is contemplation. Nothing short of everything, will really do.

Several excuses are always less convincing than one.