The artist one day falls through a hole in the brambles, and from that moment he is following the dark rapids of an underground river which may sometimes flow so near to the surface that the laughing picnic parties are heard above.

In youth the life of reason is not in itself sufficient; afterwards the life of emotion, except for short periods, becomes unbearable.

It is a mistake to expect good work from expatriates for it is not what they do that matters but what they are not doing.

The civilization of one epoch becomes the manure of the next.

The reward of art is not fame or success but intoxication.

Optimism and self-pity are the positive and negative poles of modern cowardice.

Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.