I viddied that thinking is for the gloopy ones and that the oomny ones use like inspiration and what Bog sends. For now it was lovely music that came to my aid.

It was like a bird of rarest-spun heaven metal or like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now.

Elgar is not manic enough to be Russian, not witty or pointilliste enough to be French, not harmonically simple enough to be Italian and not stodgy enough to be German. We arrive at his Englishry by pure elimination.

Art is rare and sacred and hard work, and there ought to be a wall of fire around it.

For no man is damned precisely because God hath not chosen him, because he is not elected, but because he is a sinner, and doth wilfully refuse the means of grace offered.

A work of fiction should be, for its author, a journey into the unknown, and the prose should convey the difficulties of the journey.

As we grow older, the memories of early life brighten, those of maturity and senescence grow dim and confused.