Another little drink wouldn't do us any harm.

Virginia Woolf's writing is no more than glamorous knitting. I believe she must have a pattern somewhere.

[History is] that terrible mill in which sawdust rejoins sawdust.

Said the Sun to the Moon-'When you are but a lonely white crone, And I, a dead King in my golden armour somewhere in a dark wood, Remember only this of our hopeless love That never till Time is done Will the fire of the heart and the fire of the mind be one

Isn't it curious how one has only to open a book of verse to realise immediately that it was written by a very fine poet, or else that it was written by someone who is not a poet at all. In the case of the former, the lines, the images, though they are inherent in each other, leap up and give one this shock of delight. In the case of the latter, they lie flat on the page, never having lived.

Vulgarity is, in reality, nothing but a modern, chic, pert descendant of the goddess Dullness.

I am patient with stupidity but not with those who are proud of it.