It is in this unearthly first hour of spring twilight that earth's almost agonized livingness is most felt. This hour is so dreadful to some people that they hurry indoors and turn on the lights.

The innocent are so few that two of them seldom meet - when they do meet, their victims lie strewn all round.

Style is the thing that's always a bit phony, and at the same time you cannot write without style.

Autumn arrives in early morning, but spring at the close of a winter day.

To the sun Rome owes its underlying glow, and its air called golden - to me, more the yellow of white wine; like wine it raises agreeability to poetry.

Spoilt pleasure is a sad, unseemly thing; you can only bury it.

I think the main thing, don't you, is to keep the show on the road.