The real tragedy of England, as I see it, is the tragedy of ugliness. The country is so lovely: the man-made England is so vile.

When the emotional soul receives a wounding shock, the soul seems to recover as the body recovers. But this is only in appearance. Slowly, slowly the wound to the soul begins to make itself felt, like a bruise, which only slowly deepens its terrible ache, till it fills all the psyche. And when we think we have recovered and forgotten, it is then that the terrible after-effects have to be encountered at their worst.

If you cut a thing up, of course it will smell. Hence, nothing raises such an infernal stink at last, as human psychology.

The goal is to know how not-to-know.

Literature is a toil and a snare, a curse that bites deep.

Freedom is a very great reality, but it means above all things, freedom from lies.

I hate England and its hopelessness. I hate [Arnold] Bennett's resignation. Tragedy ought really to be a great big kick at misery.