There are moods in which one feels the impulse to enter a tacit protest against too gross an appetite for pure aesthetics in this starving and sinning world. One turns half away, musingly, from certain beautiful useless things.

Love has nothing to do with good reasons.

There are women who are for all your 'times of life.' They're the most wonderful sort.

New York is appalling, fantastically charmless and elaborately dire.

London is on the whole the most possible form of life.

Art without life is a poor affair.

However British you may be, I am more British still.