One's favorite book is as elusive as one's favorite pudding.

The final test for a novel will be our affection for it, as it is the test of our friends, and of anything else which we cannot define.

If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays, it will be very exciting--both for us and for her.

There was something better in life than this rub­bish, if only he could get to it—love—nobility—big spaces where passion clasped peace, spaces no science could reach, but they existed for ever, full of woods some of them, and arched with majestic sky and a friend. . .

Reverence is fatal to literature.

Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way.

We are not concerned with the very poor. They are unthinkable, and only to be approached by the statistician or the poet.