God is not Love in the East. He is Power, although Mercy may temper it.

Ah, but you see, I didn't want to be fair.

Faith, to my mind, is a stiffening process, a sort of mental starch.

Romance only dies with life. No pair of pincers will ever pull it out of us. But there is a spurious sentiment which cannot resist the unexpected and the incongruous and the grotesque. A touch will loosen it, and the sooner it goes from us the better.

At night, when the curtains are drawn and the fire flickers, my books attain a collective dignity.

Towns are after all excrescences, grey fluxions, where men, hurrying to find one another, have lost themselves.

I do like Christmas on the whole.... In its clumsy way, it does approach Peace and Goodwill. But it is clumsier every year.