Nature is a wet place where large numbers of ducks fly overhead uncooked.

The final mystery is oneself.

Most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes.

In spite of the roaring of the young lions at the Union, and the screaming of the rabbits in the home of the vivisect, in spite of Keble College, and the tramways, and the sporting prints, Oxford still remains the most beautiful thing in England, and nowhere else are life and art so exquisitely blended, so perfectly made one.

Love is not fashionable anymore; the poets have killed it.

All thought is immoral. Its very essence is destruction. If you think of anything, you kill it. Nothing survives being thought of.

She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses but in all my garden there is no red rose.