I Hated The Bangs In The War:

Be Fond Of The Man Who Jests At His Scars, If You Like; But Never Believe He Is Being On The Level With You.

I Hated The Bangs In The War: I Always Felt A Silent War Would Be More Tolerable.

The Most Deeply Moving Element In The Contemplation Of Beauty Is The Element Of Loss. We Desire To Hold; But The Sunset Melts Into The Night, And The Secret Of The Painting On The Wall Can Never Be The Secret Of The Buyer.

There Are Few Things More Disturbing Than To Find, In Somebody We Detest, A Moral Quality Which Seems To Us Demonstrably Superior To Anything We Ourselves Possess. It Augurs Not Merely An Unfairness On The Part Of Creation, But A Lack Of Artistic Judgment. Sainthood Is Acceptable Only In Saints.

We Demand That People Should Be True To The Pictures We Have Of Them, No Matter How Repulsive Those Pictures May Be: We Prefer The True Portrait (as We Have Conceived It), In All Its Homogeneity, To One With A Detail Added Which Refuses To Fit In.