The word known to all men.
The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea.
The pity is the public will demand and find a moral in my book – or worse they may take it in some more serious way, and on the honor of a gentleman, there is not one single serious line in it.
The object of the artist is the creation of the beautiful. What the beautiful is is another question.
The oaks of ald now they lie in peat yet elms leap where askes lay.
The mouth can be better engaged than with a cylinder of rank weed.
The men that is now is only all palaver and what they can get out of you.
The demand that I make of my reader is that he should devote his whole life to reading my works.
The artist, like the God of creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
The apprehensive faculty must be scrutinised in action.
Shut your eyes and see.
She dealt with moral problems as a cleaver deals with meat: and in this case she had made up her mind.
