In the dust where we have buried the silent races and their abominations we have buried so much of the delicate magic of life.

You love me so much, you want to put me in your pocket. And I should die there smothered.

Necessary, forever necessary, to burn out false shames and smelt the heaviest ore of the body into purity.

Sunday night meant, in the dark, wintry, rainy Midlands ... anywhere where two creatures might stand and squeeze together and spoon.... Spooning was a fine art, whereas kissing and cuddling are calf-processes.

And in this passion for understanding her soul lay close to his; she had him all to herself. But he must be made abstract first.

Oh, what a catastrophe, what a maiming of love when it was made personal, merely personal feeling. This is what is the matter with us: we are bleeding at the roots because we are cut off from the earth and sun and stars. Love has become a grinning mockery because, poor blossom, we plucked it from its stem on the Tree of Life and expected it to keep on blooming in our civilized vase on the table.

There is a brief time for sex, and a long time when sex is out of place. But when it is out of place as an activity there still should be the large and quiet space in the consciousness where it lives quiescent. Old people can have a lovely quiescent sort of sex, like apples, leaving the young quite free for their sort.