Sex is our deepest form of consciousness. It is utterly non-ideal, non-mental. It is pure blood-consciousness.... It is the consciousness of the night, when the soul is almost asleep.

Where the electron behaves and misbehaves as it will, where the forces tie themselves up into knots of atoms and come united.

Far back, far back in our dark soul the horse prances.

The true unconscious is the well-head, the fountain of real motivity. The sex of which Adam and Eve became conscious derived fromthe very God who bade them be not conscious of it.

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.

There was a warmth of fury in his last phrases. He meant she loved him more than he her. Perhaps he could not love her. Perhaps she had not in herself that which he wanted. It was the deepest motive of her soul, this self-mistrust. It was so deep she dared neither realise nor acknowledge. Perhaps she was deficient. Like an infinitely subtle shame, it kept her always back. If it were so, she would do without him. She would never let herself want him. She would merely see.

Primarily I am a passionately religious man, and my novels must be written from the depth of my religious experience.