Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me! A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time.

Nothing but love has made the dog lose his wild freedom, to become the servant of man.

I have lived among enough painters and around studios to have had all the theories - and how contradictory they are - rammed down my throat. A man has to have a gizzard like an ostrich to digest all the brass-tacks and wire nails of modern art theories.

To the Puritan all things are impure, as somebody says.

The novel is a perfect medium for revealing to us the changing rainbow of our living relationships. The novel can help us to live,as nothing else can: no didactic Scripture, anyhow. If the novelist keeps his thumb out of the pan.

Why, why are people all balls of bitter dust? Because they won't fall off the tree when they're ripe. They hang on to their old positions when the position is overpast, till they become infested with little worms and dry-rot.

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