Who shall blame him? Who will not secretly rejoice when the hero puts his armour off, and halts by the window and gazes at his wife and son, who, very distant at first, gradually come closer and closer, till lips and book and head are clearly before him, though still lovely and unfamiliar from the intensity of his isolation and the waste of ages and the perishing of the stars, and finally putting his pipe in his pocket and bending his magnificent head before her—who will blame him if he does homage to the beauty of the world?

To whom can I expose the urgency of my own passion?…There is nobody—here among these grey arches, and moaning pigeons, and cheerful games and tradition and emulation, all so skilfully organised to prevent feeling alone.

It is no use trying to sum people up. One must follow hints, not exactly what is said, nor yet entirely what is done.

I am all the time thinking about poetry and fiction and you.

Sometimes I think heaven must be one continuous unexhausted reading.

I will dream today; for I must unscrew my head somehow.

As I grow old I hate the writing of letters more and more, and like getting them better and better.