And to my lips' Bright crimson rim The passion slips, And down my slim White body drips The shining hymn.

The novel is the highest form of human expression so far attained. Why? Because it is so incapable of the absolute.

I would like [the working man] to give me back books and newspapers and theories. And I would like to give him back, in return, his old insouciance, and rich, original spontaneity and fullness of life.

Away with all ideals. Let each individual act spontaneously from the forever incalculable prompting of the creative wellhead within him. There is no universal law.

Nobody knows you. You don't know yourself. And I, who am half in love with you, What am I in love with? My own imaginings?

Don't be sucked in by the su-superior, don't swallow the culture bait, don't drink, don't drink and get beerier and beerier, do learn to discriminate.

They were evidently small men, all wind and quibbles, flinging out their chuffy grain to us with far less interest than a farm-wife feels as she scatters corn to her fowls.