Virginia Woolf's Writing Is No More Than

Vulgarity Is, In Reality, Nothing But A Modern, Chic, Pert Descendant Of The Goddess Dullness.

What An Artist Is For Is To Tell Us What We See But Do Not Know That We See.

It Is Hardly Respectable To Be Good Nowadays.

Isn't It Curious How One Has Only To Open A Book Of Verse To Realise Immediately That It Was Written By A Very Fine Poet, Or Else That It Was Written By Someone Who Is Not A Poet At All. In The Case Of The Former, The Lines, The Images, Though They Are Inherent In Each Other, Leap Up And Give One This Shock Of Delight. In The Case Of The Latter, They Lie Flat On The Page, Never Having Lived.

The Light Would Show (if It Could Harden) Eternities Of Kitchen Garden