Well-bred English people never have imagination.

What? Sunday morning in an English family and no sausages? God bless my soul, what's the world coming to, eh?

Fantasy works inwards upon its author, blurring the boundary between the visioned and the actual, and associating itself ever moreclosely with the Ego, so that the child who has fantasied himself a murderer ends by becoming a Loeb or a Leopold. The creative Imagination works outwards, steadily increasing the gap between the visioned and the actual, till this becomes the great gulf fixed between art and nature. Few writers of crime-stories become murderers--if any do, it is not the result of identifying themselves with their murderous heroes.

To subdue one's self to one's own ends might be dangerous, but to subdue one's self to other people's ends was dust and ashes. Yet there were those, still more unhappy, who envied even the ashy saltness of those dead sea apples.

I am better off with vegetables at the bottom of my garden than with all the fairies of the Midsummer Night's Dream.

Lord, teach us to take our hearts and look them in the face, however difficult it may be.

One must not only die daily, but every day we must be born again.