Feather-footed through the plashy fen passes the questing vole.'-William Boot

To see Stephen Spender fumbling with our rich and delicate language is to experience all the horror of seeing a Sevres vase in the hands of a chimpanzee.

I think there's almost nothing I can't excuse except perhaps worshiping graven images. That seems to be idiotic.

Perhaps host and guest is really the happiest relation for father and son.

'I don't believe you've changed at all, Charles.' 'No, I'm afraid not.' 'D'you want to change?' 'It's the only evidence of life.'

He did not fail in love, but he lost the joy of it [...]

No one could really hate a saint, could they? They can't really hate God either. When they want to Hate Him and His saints they have to find something like themselves and pretends it's God and hate that.