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.

No absolute is going to make the lion lie down with the lamb: unless the lamb is inside.

Oh, what a catastrophe for man when he cut himself off from the rhythm of the year, from his unison with the sun and the earth. Oh, what a catastrophe, what a maiming of love when it was a personal, merely personal feeling, taken away from the rising and the setting of the sun, and cut off from the magic connection of the solstice and the equinox!

If you try to nail anything down, in the novel, either it kills the novel, or the novel gets up and walks away with the nail.

Design in art, is a recognition of the relation between various things, various elements in the creative flux. You can't invent a design. You recognize it, in the fourth dimension. That is, with your blood and your bones, as well as with your eyes.

We have to hate our immediate predecessors, to get free from their authority.

Since obscenity is the truth of our passion today, it is the only stuff of art -- or almost the only stuff.