The human being is a most curious creature. He thinks he has got one soul, and he has got dozens.

For us to go to Italy and to penetrate into Italy is like a most fascinating act of self-discovery

... he preferred his own madness, to the regular sanity. He rejoiced in his own madness, he was free. He did not want that old sanity of the world, which was become so repulsive. He rejoiced in the new-found world of his madness. It was so fresh and delicate and so satisfying.

My soul is my great asset and my great misfortune.

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

Literary criticism can be no more than a reasoned account of the feeling produced upon the critic by the book he is criticising.

The nice clean intimacy which we now so admire between the sexes is sterilizing. It makes neuters. Later on, no deep, magical sex-life is possible.