I confess . . . that I am not myself very much concerned with the question of influence, or with those publicists who have impressed their names upon the public by catching the morning tide and rowing very vast in the direction in which the current was flowing; but rather that there should always be a few writers preoccupied in penetrating to the core of the matter, in trying to arrive at the truth and to set it forth, without too much hope, without ambition to alter the immediate course of affairs, and without being downcast or defeated when nothing appears to ensue.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet--and here's no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid.

I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river Is a strong brown god-sullen, untamed and intractable.

A wrong attitude toward nature implies, somewhere, a wrong attitude toward God.

Gin and drugs, dear lady, gin and drugs.

Writing every day is a way of keeping the engine running, and then something good may come out of it.

I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.