When I read Shakespeare I am struck with wonder that such trivial people should muse and thunder in such lovely language.

I cannot be a materialist - but Oh, how is it possible that a God who speaks to all hearts can let Belgravia go laughing to a vicious luxury, and Whitechapel cursing to a filthy debauchery - such suffering, such dreadful suffering - and shall the short years of Christ's mission atone for it all?

One could laugh at the world better if it didn't mix tender kindliness with its brutality.

What you intuitively desire, that is possible to you.

When we really want to go for something better, we shall smash the old. Until then, any sort of proposal, or making proposals, is no more than a tiresome game for self-important people.

Most men have a deadness in them that frightens me so because of my own deadness. Why can't men get their life straight, like St.Mawr, and then think? Why can't they think quick, mother: quick as a woman: only farther than we do?

Who knows the power that Saturn has over us, or Venus? But it is a vital power, rippling exquisitely through us all the time.