The historian records, but the novelist creates.

When that strange race nears the dust and is condemned as untouchable, then nature remembers the physical perfection that she accomplished elsewhere, and throws out a god-not many, but one here and there, to prove to society how little its categories impress her.

Of course he despised the world as a whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement.

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

A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself.

Railway termini are our gates to the glorious and the unknown. Through them we pass out into adventure and sunshine, to them, alas! we return.

Beethoven's Fifth Symphony is the most sublime noise that has ever penetrated into the ear of man.