The novelist, unlike many of his colleagues, makes up a number of word-masses roughly describing himself (roughly: niceties shallcome later), gives them names and sex, assigns them plausible gestures, and causes them to speak by the use of inverted commas, and perhaps to behave consistently.

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

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

For a wonderful physical tie binds the parents to the children; and - by some sad, strange irony - it does not bind us children to our parents. For if it did, if we could answer their love not with gratitude but with equal love, life would lose much of its pathos and much of its squalor, and we might be wonderfully happy.

Reverence is fatal to literature.

There lies at the back of every creed something terrible and hard for which the worshipper may one day be required to suffer.

Ah, but you see, I didn't want to be fair.