Well-bred English People Never Have Imagination.

The English Language Has A Deceptive Air Of Simplicity; So Have Some Little Frocks; But They Are Both Not The Kind Of Thing You Can Run Up In Half An Hour With A Machine.

But If It Ever Occurs To People To Value The Honor Of The Mind Equally With The Honor Of The Body, We Shall Get A Social Revolution Of A Quite Unparalleled Sort — And Very Different From The Kind That Is Being Made At The Moment.

The Business Of The Artist Is Not To Escape From His Material Medium Or Bully It, But To Serve It; But To Serve It, He Must Love It. If He Does So, He Will Realise That In Its Service Is Perfect Freedom.

The Artist's Knowledge Of His Own Creative Nature Is Often Unconscious; He Pursues His Mysterious Way Of Life In A Strange Innocence.

If We Did Not Know All His Retorts By Heart, If We Had Not Taken The Sting Out Of Them By Incessant Repetition In The Accents Of The Pulpit, And If We Had Not Somehow Got It Into Our Heads That Brains Were Rather Reprehnsible, We Should Reckon Him Among The Greatest Wits Of All Time. Nobody Else, In Three Brief Years, Has Achieved Such An Output Of Epigram.