In the creative state a man is taken out of himself.

There is much good luck in the world, but it is luck. We are none of us safe. We are children, playing or quarrelling on the line.

Without form, the sensitiveness vanishes.

The armour of falsehood is subtly wrought out of darkness, and hides a man not only from others, but from his own soul.

How can the mind take hold of such a country? Generations of invaders have tried, but they remain in exile. The important towns they build are only retreats, their quarrels the malaise of men who cannot find their way home. India knows of their trouble. She knows of the whole world's trouble, to its uttermost depth. She calls "Come" through her hundred mouths, through objects ridiculous and august. But come to what? She has never defined. She is not a promise, only an appeal.

If God could tell the story of the Universe, the Universe would become fictitious.

Only a writer who has the sense of evil can make goodness readable.