Much of writing might be described as mental pregnancy with successive difficult deliveries.

Living in an age of advertisement, we are perpetually disillusioned. The perfect life is spread before us every day, but it changes and withers at a touch.

One of the delights known to age, and beyond the grasp of youth, is that of Not Going.

To say that these men paid their shillings to watch twenty-two hirelings kick a ball is merely to say that a violin is wood and catgut, that Hamlet is so much paper and ink.

The people who pretend that dying is rather like strolling into the next room always leave me unconvinced. Death, like birth, must be a tremendous event.

In a world shaped and colored more and more by politicians, the nations meet politically, and hardly any other way to settle their differences.

The point is to be good-to be sensitive and sincere.