Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things. Still, life had a way of adding day to day

The eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages.

All great writers have, of course, an atmosphere in which they seem most at their ease and at their best; a mood of the general mind which they interpret and indeed almost discover, so that we come to read them rather for that than for any story or character or scene of seperate excellence.

[Ulysses is] the work of a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples.

If people are highly successful in their profession they lose their senses. Sight goes. They have no time to look at pictures. Sound goes. They have no time to listen to music. Speech goes. They have no time for conversation. They lose their sense of proportion.

No sooner have you feasted on beauty with your eyes than your mind tells you that beauty is vain and beauty passes

In the 18th century we knew how everything was done, but here I rise through the air, I listen to voices in America, I see men flying- but how is it done? I can't even begin to wonder. So my belief in magic returns.