Most men have a deadness in them that frightens me so because of my own deadness. Why can't men get their life straight, like St.Mawr, and then think? Why can't they think quick, mother: quick as a woman: only farther than we do?

We only seem to learn from Life that Life doesn't matter so much as it seemed to do - it's not so burningly important, after all, what happens. We crawl, like blinking sea-creatures, out of the Ocean onto a spur of rock, we creep over the promontory bewildered and dazzled and hurting ourselves, then we drop in the ocean on the other side: and the little transit doesn't matter so much.

I know the greatness of Christianity; it is a past greatness.. I live in 1924, and the Christian venture is done.

Plant consciousness, insect consciousness, fish consciousness, all are related by one permanent element, which we may call the religious element inherent in all life, even in a flea: the sense of wonder. That is our sixth sense, and it is the natural religious sense.

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

How ravished one could be without ever being touched. Ravished by dead words become obscene and dead ideas become obsessions.

I've never seen a wild thing feel sorry for itself.