Human relations are impossible. When they are real they are uncomfortable, and when they are comfortable they are unreal. It was for the journey into solitude that the human soul was created.

Logic! Good gracious! What rubbish!

There has been, is, and always will be every conceivable type of person.

But why I cry out against Rubens is because he painted undressed people instead of naked ones.

Letters have to pass two tests before they can be classed as good: they must express the personality both of the writer and of the recipient.

It isn't possible to love and part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal.

But nothing in India is identifiable, the mere asking of a question causes it to disappear or to merge in something else.