Between the desire And the spasm, Between the potency And the existence, Between the essence And the descent, Falls the Shadow.

Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky

Most contemporary novels are not really "written." They obtain what reality they have largely from an accurate rendering of the noises that human beings currently make in their daily simple needs of communication; and what part of a novel is not composed of these noises consists of a prose which is no more alive than that of a competent newspaper writer or government official. A prose that is altogether alive demands something of the reader that the ordinary novel-reader is not prepared to give.

As we grow older, the world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated of dead and living.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap And seeing that it was a soft October night Curled once about the house, and fell asleep

He had a mind so fine that no idea could violate it

Those who talk of the bible as a monument of English prose are merely admiring it as a monument over the grave of Christianity.