Literary criticism can be no more than a reasoned account of the feeling produced upon the critic by the book he is criticising.

No creature is fully itself till it is, like the dandelion, opened in the bloom of pure relationship to the sun, the entire living cosmos.

The horse, the horse! The symbol of surging potency and power of movement, of action.

If we had reverence for our life, our life would take at once religious form. But as it is, in our filthy irreverence, it remains a disgusting slough, where each one of us goes so thoroughly disguised in dirt that we are all alike and indistinguishab

There is nothing to save, now all is lost, but a tiny core of stillness in the heart like the eye of a violet.

The Brangwens had lived for generations on the Marsh Farm, in the meadows where the Erewash twisted sluggishly through alder trees, separating Derbyshire from Nottinghamshire.

Far back, far back in our dark soul the horse prances.