It's you who are telling me; opening my eyes to things I'd looked at so long that I'd ceased to see them.

Damn words; they're just the pots and pans of life, the pails and scrubbing-brushes. I wish I didn't have to think in words.

Another unsettling element in modern art is that common symptom of immaturity, the dread of doing what has been done before.

The very good people didn't convince me; I felt they'd never been tempted. But you knew; you understood; you had felt the world outside tugging at one with all its golden hands — and yet you hated the things it asks of one; you hated happiness bought by disloyalty and cruelty and indifference.

It frightened him to think what must have gone to the making of her eyes.

traditions that have lost their meaning are the hardest of all to destroy.

Yes, you have been away a very long time.' 'Oh, centuries and centuries; so long,' she said, 'that I'm sure I'm dead and buried and this dear old place is heaven.