To mourn was distressing, but to endeavor to mourn and fail was worse than distress.

Violence commands both literature and life, and violence is always crude and distorted.

Of one thing alone I am very sure: it is a law of our nature that the memory of longing should survive the more fugitive memory of fulfillment.

The share of the sympathetic publisher in the author's success - the true success so different from the ephemeral - is apt to be overlooked in these blatant days, so it is just as well that some of us should keep it in mind.

Doesn't all experience crumble in the end to mere literary material?

To mourn was distressing, but to endeavor to mourn and fail was worse than distress.

I hated the things they believe in, the things they so innocently and charmingly pretended. I hated the sanctimonious piety that let people hurt helpless creatures. I hated the prayers and the hymns - the fountains and the red images that coloured their drab music, the fountains filled with blood, the sacrifice of the lamb.