Nonsense and beauty have close connections.

No one is more triumphant than the man who chooses a worthy subject and masters all its facts.

Ideas are fatal to caste.

Like all her friends, I miss her greatly...But...I am sure there is no case for lamentation...Virginia Woolf got through an immense amount of work, she gave acute pleasure in new ways, she pushed the light of the English language a little further against darkness. Those are facts.

. . . life is sometimes life and sometimes only a drama, and one must learn to distinguish t'other from which . . .

The novel is a formidable mass, and it is so amorphous - no mountain in it to climb, no Parnassus or Helicon, not even a Pisgah. It is most distinctly one of the moister areas of literature - irrigated by a hundred rills and occasionally degenerating into a swamp. I do not wonder that the poets despise it, though they sometimes find themselves in it by accident. And I am not surprised at the annoyance of the historians when by accident it finds itself among them.

We are all like Scheherazade's husband, in that we want to know what happens next.