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

It grew late. Through the open door, stealthily, came the scent of madonna lilies, almost as if it were prowling abroad.

It's autumn and everybody feels like a disembodied spirit then.

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.

Why has mankind had such a craving to be imposed upon? Why this lust after imposing creeds, imposing deeds, imposing buildings, imposing language, imposing works of art? The thing becomes an imposition and a weariness at last. Give us things that are alive and flexible, which won't last too long and become an obstruction and a weariness. Even Michelangelo becomes at last a lump and a burden and a bore. It is so hard to see past him.

Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically.

Men! The only animal in the world to fear.