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

Curse the blasted, jelly-boned swines, the slimy, the belly-wriggling invertebrates, the miserable soddingrotters, the flaming sods, the sniveling, dribbling, dithering, palsied, pulse-less lot that make up England today. They've got white of egg in their veins, and their spunk is that watery it's a marvel they can breed.

At the back of my life's horizon, where the dreamings of past lives crowd.

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

The East is marvellously interesting for tracing our steps back. But for going forward, it is nothing. All it can hope for is to be fertilised by Europe, so that it can start on a new phase.

Art- speech is the only truth. An artist is usually a damned liar but his art, if it be art, will tell you the truth of his day and that is all that matters. Away with eternal truth. The truth lives from day to day, and the marvelous Plato of yesterday is chiefly bosh today.

The word arse is as much god as the word face. It must be so, otherwise you cut off your god at the waist.