No form of love is wrong, so long as it is love, and you yourself honour what you are doing. Love has an extraordinary variety of forms! And that is all that there is in life, it seems to me.
There is no evolving, only unfolding. The lily is in the bit of dust which is its beginning, lily and nothing but lily: and the lily in blossom is a ne plus ultra: there is no evolving beyond.
There is no such thing as liberty. You only change one sort of domination for another. All we can do is to choose our master.
Whatever men you take, keep the idea of man intact: let your soul wait whether your body does or not.
The only justice is to follow the sincere intuition of the soul, angry or gentle. Anger is just, and pity is just, but judgement is never just.
As we all know, too much of any divine thing is destruction.
People always make war when they say they love peace.
Life and love are life and love, a bunch of violets is a bunch of violets, and to drag in the idea of a point is to ruin everything. Live and let live, love and let love, flower and fade, and follow the natural curve, which flows on, pointless.
Europe is, perhaps, the least worn-out of the continents, because it is the most lived in. A place that is lived in lives.
Be a good animal, true to your animal instincts.
You don’t learn algebra with your blessed soul. Can’t you look at it with your clear simple wits?
But I like the feel of men on things, while they’re alive. There’s a feel of men about trucks, because they’ve been handled with men’s hands, all of them.
My soul is my great asset and my great misfortune.
The trains roared by like projectiles level on the darkness, fuming and burning, making the valley clang with their passage. They were gone, and the lights of the towns and villages glittered in silence.
Not that the Red Indian will ever possess the broad lands of America. At least I presume not. But his ghost will.
Literary criticism can be no more than a reasoned account of the feeling produced upon the critic by the book he is criticising.
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.
All vital truth contains the memory of all that for which it is not true.
You don’t want to love – your eternal and abnormal craving is to be loved. You aren’t positive, you’re negative. You absorb, absorb, as if you must fill yourself up with love, because you’ve got a shortage somewhere.
Reason is a supple nymph, and slippery as a fish by nature. She had as leave give her kiss to an absurdity any day, as to syllogistic truth. The absurdity may turn out truer.