Art Is Magic, Not Logic.

Virginia Woolf, I Enjoyed Talking To Her, But Thought Nothing Of Her Writing. I Considered Her 'a Beautiful Little Knitter.

The Living Blind And Seeing Dead Together Lie As If In Love . . . There Was No More Hating Then, And No More Love; Gone Is The Heart Of Man.

Art Is Magic, Not Logic. This Craze For The Logical Spirit In Irrational Shape Is Part Of The Present Harmful Mania For Uniformity.

What The Reporters Are Like! They Are Mad With Excitement At The Thought Of My Approaching Demise. Kind Sister Farquhar, My Nurse, Spends Much Of Her Time In Throwing Them Downstairs. But One Got In The Other Day, And Asked Me If I Mind The Fact That I Must Die.

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.