Nonsense and beauty have close connections.

There is something majestic in the bad taste of Italy.

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

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

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.

I do like Christmas on the whole.... In its clumsy way, it does approach Peace and Goodwill. But it is clumsier every year.

Human beings have their great chance in the novel.