Mind, I am not preaching anything contrary to accepted morality. I am not advocating free love in this or any other case. Society must go on, I suppose, and society can only exist if the normal, if the virtuous, and the slightly deceitful flourish, and if the passionate, the headstrong, and the too-truthful are condemned to suicide and madness.

Higher than the beasts, lower than the angels, stuck in our idiot Eden.

I know nothing - nothing in the world - of the hearts of men. I only know that I am alone - horribly alone.

Ford's last Fifth Queen novel is amazing. The whole cycle is a noble conception.

If you hunch your shoulders too long against a storm your shoulders will grow bowed.

What then is to be the lot of Rossetti's fame and influence? 'An amateur who failed in two arts', it is true; yet it hardly harms Rossetti or touches his standing. On the contrary, it defines both very brilliantly. The small word 'failed' is a small word and little more to artists who are forever going on until they give up over a game that must be lost. Every artist, when confronted by the immensities of art, which is life, must confess to failure. A failure is a thing very relative.

And it was a most remarkable, a most moving glance, as if for a moment a lighthouse had looked at me.