Towns are after all excrescences, grey fluxions, where men, hurrying to find one another, have lost themselves.
E. M. ForsterI only wish the poets would say this too: love is of the body; not the body, but of the the body. Ah! the misery that would be saved if we confessed that! Ah! for a little directness to liberate the soul!
E. M. ForsterA poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself.
E. M. Forster