All human history moves towards one great goal

If there is any difficulty in what I write, it is because of the material I use. The thought is always simple.

I am not likely to die of bashfulness but neither am I prepared to be crucified to attest the perfection of my art. I dislike to hear of any stray heroics on the prowl for me.

Shakespeare is the happy hunting ground of all minds that have lost their balance.

Interpretations of interpretations interpreted.

I am quite content to go down to posterity as a scissors and paste man for that seems to me a harsh but not unjust description

What birds were they? (...) He listened to the cries: like the squeak of mice be- hind the wainscot : a shrill twofold note. But the notes were long and shrill and whirring, unlike the cry of vermin, falling a third or a fourth and trilled as the flying beaks clove the air. Their cry was shrill and clear and fine and falling like threads of silken light unwound from whirring spools.