There are not many English novels which deserve to be called great: Parade's End is one of them.

Each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom.

Out on the lawn I lie in bed, Vega conspicuous overhead.

Those who will not reason, perish in the act. Those who will not act, perish for that reason.

You shall love your crooked neighbour, with your crooked heart.

A writer is a maker, not a man of action: his private life is of no concern to anybody but himself, his family and his friends.

Rhymes, meters, stanza forms, etc., are like servants. If the master is fair enough to win their affection and firm enough to command their respect, the result is an orderly happy household. If he is too tyrannical, they give notice; if he lacks authority, they become slovenly, impertinent, drunk and dishonest.