In the Augustan age ... poetry was ... the sister of architecture; with the romantics, and their heightened vowel-sense, resulting in different melodic lines, she became the sister of music; in the present day, she appears like the sister of horticulture, each poem growing according to the law of its own nature.

Picasso was a delightful, kindly, friendly, simple little man. When I met him he was extremely excited and overjoyed that his mother-in-law had just died, and he was looking forward to the funeral.

A great many people now reading and writing would be better employed keeping rabbits.

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

I wish the government would put a tax on pianos for the incompetent.

By the time I was eleven years old, I had been taught that nature, far from abhorring a Vacuum, positively adores it.

By 'happiness' I do not mean worldly success or outside approval, though it would be priggish to deny that both these things are most agreeable. I mean the inner consciousness, the inner conviction that one is doing well the thing that one is best fitted to do by nature.