It is one of the great troubles of life that we cannot have any unmixed emotions. There is always something in our enemy that we like, and something in our sweetheart that we dislike.

The mystical life is at the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the plowman, splashing the wintry mold, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.

I spit into the face of time that has transfigured me

I believe... that our memories are part of one great memory, the memory of Nature herself.

I agree about Shaw - he is haunted by the mystery he flouts. He is an atheist who trembles in the haunted corridor.