There is a certain kind of person who is so dominated by the desire to be loved for himself alone that he has constantly to test those around him by tiresome behavior; what he says and does must be admired, not because it is intrinsically admirable, but because it is his remark, his act. Does not this explain a good deal of avant-garde art?

Every American poet feels that the whole responsibility for contemporary poetry has fallen upon his shoulders, that he is a literary aristocracy of one.

Thou shalt not answer questionnaires Or quizzes upon world affairs, Nor with compliance Take any test. Thou shalt not sit with statisticians nor commit A social science.

Pleasure is by no means an infallible critical guide, but it is the least fallible.

It takes little talent to see what lies under one's nose, a good deal to know in what direction to point that organ.

An unmanly sort of man whose love life seems to have been largely confined to crying in laps and playing mouse.

Oh, how I wish that Orwell were still alive, so that I could read his comments on contemporary events!