I conclude that there is as much sense in nonsense as there is nonsense in sense.

If you believe in an unseen Christ, you will believe in the unseen Christlike potential of others.

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.

Reviewers do not read books with much care . . . their profession is more given to stupidity and malice and literary ignorance even than the profession of novelist.

Each man kills the thing he loves.

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

A novelist should not be too intelligent either, although... he may be permitted to be an intellectual.