All my life I believed I knew something. But then one strange day came when I realized that I knew nothing, yes, I knew nothing. And so words became void of meaning. I have arrived too late at ultimate uncertainty.

I consider criticism merely a preliminary excitement, a statement of things a writer has to clear up in his own head sometime or other, probably antecedent to writing; of no value unless it come to fruit in the created work later.

Artists are the antennae of the race, but the bullet-headed many will never learn to trust the great artists.

A little light, like a rushlight / to lead back to splendour.

Music begins to atrophy when it departs too far from the dance... poetry begins to atrophy when it gets too far from music.

Literature does not exist in a vacuum. Writers as such have a definite social function exactly proportional to their ability as writers. This is their main use.

The what is so much more important than how.