A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many.

In the room the women come and go talking of Michelangelo.

Knowledge is invariably a matter of degree: you cannot put your finger upon even the simplest datum and say this we know.

Where does one go from a world of insanity? Somewhere on the other side of despair.

Every nation, every race, has not only its own creative, but its own critical turn of mind; and is even more oblivious of the shortcomings and limitations of its critical habits than of those of its creative genius.

I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river is a strong brown god-sullen, untamed and intractable, Patient to some degree, at first recognized as a frontier; Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce; Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges. The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten By the dwellers in cities-ever, however, implacable. Keeping his seasons, and rages, destroyer, reminder Of what men choose to forget. Unhonored, unpropitiated By worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.

Our emotions Are only “incidents” In the effort to keep day and night together.