There is nothing harder for an Artist than to retain his Artistic integrity in the tomb of success. A tomb, nevertheless, which nearly every Artist: whether he admits it or not; naturally wants to get into.

England, where nobody ever says what they mean: and by denying feeling, kill it off stone-cold at the roots.

The wretched Artist himself is alternatively the lowest worm that ever crawled when no fire is in him; or the loftiest God that ever sand when the fire is going.

There is, happily, no limit to the faith of human nature in believing what it wants to believe.

Between threading a needle and raving insanity is the smallest eye in creation.

[On journalists:] They are as disruptive a menace to the public body: as grating turds in the intestines are to the private body.

I am unable, mentally incapable, of relating the dead thing, the broken body refusing to divulge why or where the occupant has gone, to the thing that was alive.