The Expulsion from Eden is an act of vindictive womanish spite; the Fall of Man, as recounted in the Bible, comes nearer to the Fall of God.
It is a consolation of human life that the sick forget what it is like to feel well, or the miserable to be happy.
When young we are faithful to individuals, when older we grow loyal to situations and to types.
What grape to keep its place in the sun, taught our ancestors to make wine?
It is significant comment on the victory of science over magic that were someone to say ‘if I put this pill in your beer it will explode,’ we might believe them; but were they to cry ‘if I pronounce this spell over your beer it will go flat,’ we should remain incredulous and Paracelsus, the Alchemists, Aleister Crowley and all the Magi have lived in vain. Yet when I read science I turn magical; when I study magic, scientific.
We love but once, for once only are we perfectly equipped for loving.
An aesthetic movement with a revolutionary dynamism and no popular appeal should proceed quite otherwise than by public scandal, publicity stunt, noisy expulsion and excommunication.
That sinister Stonehenge of economic man, Rockefeller Center.
Happiness lies in the fulfillment of the spirit through the body.
The only way for writers to meet is to share a quick peek over a common lamp-post.
Words today are like the shells and rope of seaweed which a child brings home glistening from the beach and which in an hour have lost their luster.
Most of the beauty of women evaporates when they achieve domestic happiness at the price of their independence.
Purity engenders Wisdom, Passion avarice, and Ignorance folly, infatuation and darkness.
When I contemplate the accumulation of guilt and remorse which, like a garbage-can, I carry through life, and which is fed not only by the lightest action but by the most harmless pleasure, I feel Man to be of all living things the most biologically incompetent and ill-organized. Why has he acquired a seventy years life-span only to poison it incurably by the mere being of himself? Why has he thrown Conscience, like a dead rat, to putrefy in the well?
The artist one day falls through a hole in the brambles, and from that moment he is following the dark rapids of an underground river which may sometimes flow so near to the surface that the laughing picnic parties are heard above.
