There is, it seems to us, At best, only a limited value In the knowledge derived from experience.

Each venture Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate With shabby equipment always deteriorating In the general mess of imprecision of feeling.

And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

The historical sense compels a man to write not merely with his own generation in his bones, but with a feeling that the whole of literature from Homer and within it the whole of the literature of his own country has a simultaneous existence and composes a simultaneous order.

At the still point, there the dance is.

It is only in the world of objects that we have time and space and selves.

The soul is so far from being a monad that we have not only to interpret other souls to ourself but to interpret ourself to ourself.