What a lark! What a plunge!

But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.

It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.

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

Books are the mirrors of the soul.

But he could not taste, he could not feel. In the teashop among the tables and the chattering waiters the appalling fear came over him- he could not feel. He could reason; he could read, Dante for example, quite easily…he could add up his bill; his brain was perfect; it must be the fault of the world then- that he could not feel.

if newspapers were written by people whose sole object in writing was to tell the truth about politics and the truth about art we should not believe in war, and we should believe in art.