One never can know the whys and the wherefores of one's passional changes.
I like Australia less and less. The hateful newness, the democratic conceit, every man a little pope of perfection.
A snake came to my water trough On a hot, hot day, and I in pajamas for the heat, To drink there.
Don't be on the side of the angels, it's too lowering.
But better die than live mechanically a life that is a repetition of repetitions.
We make a mistake forsaking England and moving out into the periphery of life. After all, Taormina, Ceylon, Africa, America -- as far as we go, they are only the negation of what we ourselves stand for and are: and we're rather like Jonahs running away from the place we belong.