This self now as I leant over the gate looking down over fields rolling in waves of colour beneath me made no answer. He threw up no opposition. He attempted no phrase. His fist did not form. I waited. I listened. Nothing came, nothing. I cried then with a sudden conviction of complete desertion. Now there is nothing. No fin breaks the waste of this immeasurable sea. Life has destroyed me. No echo comes when I speak, no varied words. This is more truly death than the death of friends, than the death of youth.

Money dignifies what is frivolous if unpaid for.

Style is a very simple matter; it is all rhythm. Once you get that, you can't use the wrong words.

It is impossible for human beings, constituted as they are, both to fight and to have ideals.

I will go down with my colours flying.

Lies will flow from my lips, but there may perhaps be some truth mixed up with them.

That would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection; to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions; to be poor always and unkempt; to be ridiculous in Piccadilly.