It's very inconvenient being a sculptor. It's like playing the double-bass; one's so handicapped by one's baggage.

I can't think why fancy religions should have such a ghastly effect on one's grammar. It's a kind of intellectual rot that sets in, I'm afraid.

Heaven deliver us, what's a poet? Something that can't go to bed without making a song about it.

Unlike music or poetry or painting, food rouses no response in passionate and emotional youth. Only when the surge of the blood is quieted does gastronomy come into its own with philosophy and theology and the sterner delights of the mind.

Praise God (or whatever it is) from (if direction exists) whom (if personality exists) all blessings (if that word corresponds to any percept of objective reality) flow (if Heraclitus and Bergson and Einstein are correct in stating that everything is more or less flowing about).

There certainly does seem a possibility that the detective story will come to an end, simply because the public will have learnt all the tricks.

The popular mind has grown so confused that it is no longer able to receive any statement of fact except as an expression of personal feeling.