... I doubt the capacity of the human animal for being dignified in ceremony.

Dance music ... stirs some barbaric instinct - lulled asleep in our sober lives - you forget centuries of civilization in a second, & yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.

Speech is an old torn net, through which the fish escape as one casts it over them.

That complete statement which is literature.

I will go down with my colours flying.

And now more than anything I want beautiful prose. I relish it more and more exquisitely.

He lay on his chair with his hands clasped above his paunch not reading, or sleeping, but basking like a creature gorged with existence.