Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.

One doesn't know, till one is a bit at odds with the world, how much one's friends who believe in one rather generously, mean to one.

And every true artist is the salvation of every other. But only artists produce for each other the world that is fit to live in.

I never knew how soothing trees are-many trees and patches of open sunlight, and tree presences; it is almost like having another being.

Aren't I enough for you?' she asked. 'No,' he said. 'You are enough for me, as far as a woman is concerned. You are all women to me. But I wanted a man friend, as eternal as you and I are eternal.' (Women in Love)

Reason is a supple nymph, and slippery as a fish by nature. She had as leave give her kiss to an absurdity any day, as to syllogistic truth. The absurdity may turn out truer.

Sleep is a hint of lovely oblivion.