He said it was artificial respiration, but now I find I am to have his child.

Literature is all, or mostly, about sex.

The aura of the theocratic death penalty for adultery still clings to America, even outside New England, and multiple divorce, which looks to the European like serial polygamy, is the moral solution to the problem of the itch. Love comes into it too, of course, but in Europe we tend to see marital love as an eternity which encompasses hate and also indifference: when we promise to love we really mean that we promise to honor a contract. Americans, seeming to take marriage with not enough seriousness, are really taking love and sex with too much.

All art preserves mysteries which aesthetic philosophers tackle in vain.

Keep away from physicians. It is all probing and guessing and pretending with them. They leave it to Nature to cure in her own time, but they take the credit. As well as very fat fees.

We only need to wear shoes because the British built roads which hurt our feet.

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