How much, let me note, depends upon trousers; the intelligent head is entirely handicapped by shabby trousers.
It was a miserable machine, an inefficient machine, she thought, the human apparatus for painting or for feeling; it always broke down at the critical moment; heroically, one must force it on.
But the room was empty. The fire was still blazing; the chairs, drawn out in a circle, still seemed to hold the skeleton of the party in their empty arms.
Nothing could be seen whole or read from start to finish. What was seen begun – like two friends starting to meet each other across the street – was never seen ended. After twenty minutes the body and mind were like scraps of torn paper tumbling from a sack and, indeed, the process of motoring fast out of London so much resembles the chopping small of identity which precedes unconsciousness and perhaps death itself…
And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.
the whole of life, its masters, its adventurers, then appeared in long ranks of magnificent human beings behind me; and I was the inheritor; I, the continuer; I, the person miraculously appointed to carry it on.
Nature, who has played so many queer tricks upon us, making us so unequally of clay and diamonds…
If only he could be alone in his room working, he thought, among his books. That was where he felt at his ease.
Beauty of scene; stateliness of movement; sweetness of sound – these are the graces that seem to reward the mind that seeks enjoyment purely for its own sake.
Don’t you know that our belief in man’s intellect is the greatest fallacy of them all?