I should like [people] to like the purely individual thing in themselves, which makes them act in singleness. and They only like to do the collective thing.

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.

Having achieved and accomplished love, then the man passes into the unknown. He has become himself, his tale is told.

Nobody can have the soul of me. My mother has had, and nobody can have it again. Nobody can come into my very self again, and breathe me like an atmosphere.

The world is a raving idiot, and no man can kill it: though I’ll do my best. But you’re right. We must rescue ourselves as best we can.

Gods die with men who have conceived them. But the god-stuff roars eternally, like the sea, with too vast a sound to be heard.

A museum is not a first-hand contact: it is an illustrated lecture. And what one wants is the actual vital touch.