Man is a thought-adventurer.

For God’s sake, let us be men not monkeys minding machines or sitting with our tails curled while the machine amuses us, the radio or film or gramophone. Monkeys with a bland grin on our faces.

The essential function of art is moral. But a passionate, implicit morality, not didactic. A morality which changes the blood, rather than the mind.

There is no evolving, only unfolding. The lily is in the bit of dust which is its beginning, lily and nothing but lily: and the lily in blossom is a ne plus ultra: there is no evolving beyond.

We have buried so much of the delicate magic of life.

Since obscenity is the truth of our passion today, it is the only stuff of art -- or almost the only stuff.

I want the wonder back again, or I shall die.