She let him come further, his lips came and surging, surging, soft, oh soft, yet on, like the powerful surge of water, irresistible, till with a little blind cry, she broke away.

I'd wipe the machines off the face of the earth again, and end the industrial epoch absolutely, like a black mistake.

The living self has one purpose only: to come into its own fullness of being, as a tree comes into full blossom, or a bird into spring beauty, or a tiger into lustre.

One never can know the whys and the wherefores of one's passional changes.

Beauty is an experience, nothing else. It is not a fixed pattern or an arrangement of features. It is something felt, a glow or a communicated sense of fineness.

But better die than live mechanically a life that is a repetition of repetitions.

You have to have something vicious in you to be a creative writersomething old-adamish, incompatible to the "ordinary world.