A critic is a gong at a railroad crossing clanging loudly and vainly as the train goes by.
There are certain people whom one feels almost inclined to urge to hurry up and die so that their letters can be published.
Truth and Beauty (perhaps Keats was wrong in identifying them: perhaps they have the relation of Wit and Humour, or Rain and Rainbow) are of interest only to hungry people. There are several kinds of hunger. If Socrates, Spinoza, and Santayana had had free access to a midnight icebox we would never have heard of them. Shall I be ashamed of my little mewing truths?... I ask to be forgiven: they are such tiny ones.
Perhaps this is an age when men think bravely of the human spirit; for surely they have a strange lust to lay it bare.
Being in a hurry seems so fiercely important when you yourself are the hurrier and so comically ludicrous when it is someone else.
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