Whether I get on in the world is a question; but I certainly don't get on very well with the world.
It's not art for art's sake, it's art for my sake.
There is a brief time for sex, and a long time when sex is out of place. But when it is out of place as an activity there still should be the large and quiet space in the consciousness where it lives quiescent. Old people can have a lovely quiescent sort of sex, like apples, leaving the young quite free for their sort.
God how I hate new countries: They are older than the old, more sophisticated, much more conceited, only young in a certain puerile vanity more like senility than anything.
One sheds one's sicknesses in books - repeats and presents again one's emotions, to be master of them.
I believe that the highest virtue is to be happy, living in the greatest truth, not submitting to the falsehood of these personaltimes.
I can't do with mountains at close quarters - they are always in the way, and they are so stupid, never moving and never doing anything but obtrude themselves.
I cannot be a materialist - but Oh, how is it possible that a God who speaks to all hearts can let Belgravia go laughing to a vicious luxury, and Whitechapel cursing to a filthy debauchery - such suffering, such dreadful suffering - and shall the short years of Christ's mission atone for it all?
Our civilisation cannot afford to let the censor-moron loose. The censor-moron does not really hate anything but the living and growing human consciousness.
Oh, for the wonder that bubbles into my soul.
Towns oftener swamp one than carry one out onto the big ocean of life.
All vital truth contains the memory of all that for which it is not true.
Tragedy ought really to be a great kick at misery.
As we all know, too much of any divine thing is destruction
Sleep is still most perfect, in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved. The warmth, the security and peace of soul, the utter comfort from the touch of the other, knits the sleep, so that it takes the body and soul completely in its healing.
The picture must all come out of the artist's inside, awareness of forms and figures... It is more than memory. It is the image as it lives in the consciousness, alive like a vision, but unknown.
Most fatal, most hateful of all things is bullying.... Sensual bullying of course is fairly easily detected. What is more dangerous is ideal bullying. Bullying people into what is ideally good for them.
An artist is only an ordinary man with a greater potentiality.
A little morphine in all the air. It would be wonderfully refreshing for everyone.
I hold that the parentheses are by far the most important parts of a non-business letter.
The word arse is as much god as the word face. It must be so, otherwise you cut off your god at the waist.
Persephone herself is but a voice or a darkness invisible enfolded in the deeper dark of the arms Plutonic, and pierced with the passion of dense gloom, among the splendor of torches of darkness, shedding darkness on the lost bride and her groom.
A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches Where light pushes through; A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air. A dip to the water.
When we really want to go for something better, we shall smash the old. Until then, any sort of proposal, or making proposals, is no more than a tiresome game for self-important people.
I shall be glad when you have strangled the invincible respectability that dogs your steps.
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