Faith, to my mind, is a stiffening process, a sort of mental starch.

We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.

At the moment they vanished they were everywhere, the cool benediction of the night descended, the stars sparkled, and the whole universe was a hill.

Hope, politeness, the blowing of a nose, the squeak of a boot, all produce "boum.

Roger Fry is painting me. It is too like me at present, but he is confident he will be able to alter that. Post-Impressionism is at present confined to my lower lip... and to my chin.

The strong are so stupid.

I have almost completed a long novel, but it is unpublishable until my death and England's.