The people I respect most behave as if they were immortal and as if society was eternal.

Oxford is Oxford: not a mere receptacle for youth, like Cambridge. Perhaps it wants its inmates to love it rather than to love one another.

One grows accustomed to being praised, or being blamed, or being advised, but it is unusual to be understood.

Reformers who are obsessed with purity and cannot see that their obsession is impure.

In time, Mr Hall, one gets to recognize that sneer, that hardness, for fornication extends far beyond the actual deed. Were it a deed only, I for one would not hold it anathema. But when the nations went a whoring they invariably ended by denying God, I think, and until all sexual irregularities and not some of them are penal the Church will never reconquer England.

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

Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its highest. Live in fragments no longer