... beauty, like ecstasy, has always been hostile to the commonplace. And the commonplace, under its popular label of the normal,has been the supreme authority for Homo sapiens since the days when he was probably arboreal.

I suppose I am a born novelist, for the things I imagine are more vital and vivid to me than the things I remember.

You look as if you had lived on duty and it hadn't agreed with you.

No, one couldn't make a revolution, one couldn't even start a riot, with sheep that asked only for better browsing.

Surely the novel should be a form of art - but art was not enough. It must contain not only the perfection of art, but the imperfection of nature.

Preserve, within a wild sanctuary, an inaccessible valley of reverie.

It was a perfect spring afternoon, and the air was filled with vague, roving scents, as if the earth exhaled the sweetness of hidden flowers.