Art Without Life Is A Poor Affair.

New York Is Appalling, Fantastically Charmless And Elaborately Dire.

However British You May Be, I Am More British Still.

She Had Always Been Fond Of History, And Here [in Rome] Was History In The Stones Of The Street And The Atoms Of The Sunshine.

Life Being All Inclusion And Confusion, And Art Being All Discrimination And Selection, The Latter, In Search Of The Hard Latent Value With Which It Alone Is Concerned, Sniffs Round The Mass As Instinctively And Unerringly As A Dog Suspicious Of Some Buried Bone.

Make Him [the Reader] Think The Evil, Make Him Think It For Himself, And You Are Released From Weak Specifications.