Books... are like lobster shells, we surround ourselves with 'em, then we grow out of 'em and leave 'em behind, as evidence of our earlier stages of development.

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

We cannot really look at the movement of the Spirit, just because It is the Power by which we do the looking.

But it is the mark of all movements, however well-intentioned, that their pioneers tend, by much lashing of themselves into excitement, to lose sight of the obvious.

There's nothing you can't prove if your outlook is only sufficiently limited.

On the strength of his literary output alone... any woman of sense would decline to tackle D.H. Lawrence at 1,000 pounds a night.

There were crimson roses on the bench; they looked like splashes of blood.