Consciousness is an end in itself. We torture ourselves getting somewhere, and when we get there it is nowhere, for there is nowhere to get to.

What's that as flies without wings, your ladyship? Time! Time!

I can't bear art that you can walk round and admire. A book should be either a bandit or a rebel or a man in the crowd.

Beauty is a mystery. You can neither eat it nor make flannel out of it.

One never can know the whys and the wherefores of one's passional changes.

When we really want to go for something better, we shall smash the old. Until then, any sort of proposal, or making proposals, is no more than a tiresome game for self-important people.

And besides, look at elder flowers and bluebells-they are a sign that pure creation takes place - even the butterfly. But humanity never gets beyond the caterpillar stage -it rots in the chrysalis, it never will have wings.It is anti-creation, like monkeys and baboons.