I do not, like the Fundamentalists, believe that creation stopped six thousand years ago after a week of hard work. Creation is going on all the time.

Just as the historian can teach no real history until he has cured his readers of the romantic delusion that the greatness of a queen consists in her being a pretty woman and having her head cut off, so the playwright of the first order can do nothing with his audience until he has cured them of looking at the stage through the keyhole, and sniffing round the theatre as prurient people sniff round the divorce court.

Make me a beautiful word for doing things tomorrow; for that surely is a great and blessed invention.

Home life is no more natural to us than a cage is natural to a cockatoo.

A man who has no office to go, to I don't care who he is, is a trial of which you can have no conception.

Nothing remains beautiful and interesting except thought, because the thought is the life.

In an article on Bunyan lately published in the "Contemporary Review" - the only article on the subject worth reading on the subject I ever saw (yes, thank you, I am familiar with Macaulay's patronizing prattle about "The Pilgrim's Progress") etc.