It is cremated youth. It is all yours--no one gave it to you.

I don't want anyone reading my writing to think about style. I just want them to be in the story.

Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.

The miracles of the church seem to me to rest not so much upon faces or voices or healing power coming suddenly near to us from afar off, but upon our perceptions being made finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there about us always.

Youth, art, love, dreams, true-heartedness - why must they go out of the summer world into darkness?

William Tavener never heeded ominous forecasts in the domestic horizon, and he never looked for a storm until it broke.

youth, when it is hurt, likes to feel itself betrayed.