Words, living and ghostly, the quick and the dead, crowd and jostle the otherwise too empty corridors of my mind ... To move among this bright, strange, often fabulous herd of beings, to summon them at my will, to fasten them on to paper like flies, that they may decorate it, this is the pleasure of writing.

Take my camel, dear,' said my aunt Dot, climbing down from that animal on her return from high Mass.

Life, for all its agonies...is exciting and beautiful, amusing and artful and endearing...and whatever is to come after it -- we shall not have this life again.

As to the family, I have never understood how that fits in with the other ideals -- or, indeed, why it should be an ideal at all.

The poet has to make a synthesis out of the moral life of our time, and this life is lived at this moment on a political plane.

One should, I think, always give children money, for they will spend it for themselves far more profitably than we can ever spend it for them.

Giving is not at all interesting; but receiving is, there is no doubt about it, delightful.