Women hock their jewels and their husbands' insurance policies to acquire an unaccustomed shade in hair or crêpe de chine. Why then is it that when anyone commits anything novel in the arts he should be always greeted by this same peevish howl of pain and surprise? One is led to suspect that the interest people show in these much talked of commodities, painting, music, and writing, cannot be very deep or very genuine when they so wince under an unexpected impact.

But what's the good of freedom? What can you do with it? What one wants is to live well and have a beautiful house and be respected by people.

The only way to find out anything about what kinds of lives people led in any given period is to tunnel into their records and to let them speak for themselves

The world's becoming a museum of socialist failures.

What's the use, there never was a woman living who could understand political ideas.

There's something wonderfully exciting about the quiet sing song of an aeroplane overhead with all the guns in creation lighting out at it, and searchlights feeling their way across the sky like antennae, and the earth shaking snort of the bombs and the whimper of shrapnel pieces when they come down to patter on the roof.

We work to eat to get the strength to work to eat to get the strength to work.