I wrote much because I was paid little. I had no great desire to leave a literary name behind me.

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

Well, well, well, well. If it isn't fat, stinking billygoat Billy-Boy in poison. How art thou, thou globby bottle of cheap, stinking chip-oil? Come and get one in the yarbles, if you have any yarbles, you eunuch jelly thou.

As we are all solipsists, and all die, the world dies with us. Only very minor literature aims at apocalypse.

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.

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.

Blessed tree and blessed birds, that were to be neither saved nor damned.