I should feel the air move against me, and feel the things I touched, instead of having only to look at them. I'm sure life is all wrong because it has become much too visual - we can neither hear nor feel nor understand, we can only see. I'm sure that is entirely wrong.

The mind is "ashamed" of the blood. And the blood is destroyed by the mind, actually. Hence palefaces.

We ought to dance with rapture that we should be alive and in the flesh, and part of the living, incarnate cosmos.

Oh, what a catastrophe, what a maiming of love when it was made personal, merely personal feeling. This is what is the matter with us: we are bleeding at the roots because we are cut off from the earth and sun and stars. Love has become a grinning mockery because, poor blossom, we plucked it from its stem on the Tree of Life and expected it to keep on blooming in our civilized vase on the table.

I like to write when I feel spiteful; it's like having a good sneeze.

I should think the American admiration of five-minute tourists has done more to kill the sacredness of old European beauty and aspiration than multitudes of bombs would have done.

How beautiful maleness is, if it finds its right expression.