Vitally, the human race is dying. It is like a great uprooted tree, with its roots in the air. We must plant ourselves again in the universe.

In the dust where we have buried the silent races and their abominations we have buried so much of the delicate magic of life.

I can't bear art that you can walk round and admire. A book should be either a bandit or a rebel or a man in the crowd.

I like Australia less and less. The hateful newness, the democratic conceit, every man a little pope of perfection.

The soul is a very perfect judge of her own motions, if your mind doesn't dictate to her.

The Brangwens had lived for generations on the Marsh Farm, in the meadows where the Erewash twisted sluggishly through alder trees, separating Derbyshire from Nottinghamshire.

But the act, called the sexual act, is not for the depositing of seed. It is for leaping off into the unknown, as from a cliff's edge, like Sappho into the sea.