Heaven Deliver Us, What's A Poet? Something

If You Want Your Own Way, God Will Let You Have It. Hell Is The Enjoyment Of One's Own Way Forever.

He Was So Crooked, You Could Have Used His Spine For A Safety-pin.

Passion's A Good, Stupid Horse That Will Pull The Plough Six Days A Week If You Give Him The Run Of His Heels On Sundays. But Love's A Nervous, Awkward, Over-mastering Brute; If You Can't Rein Him, It's Best To Have No Truck With Him.

Very Dangerous Things, Theories.

Fantasy Works Inwards Upon Its Author, Blurring The Boundary Between The Visioned And The Actual, And Associating Itself Ever Moreclosely With The Ego, So That The Child Who Has Fantasied Himself A Murderer Ends By Becoming A Loeb Or A Leopold. The Creative Imagination Works Outwards, Steadily Increasing The Gap Between The Visioned And The Actual, Till This Becomes The Great Gulf Fixed Between Art And Nature. Few Writers Of Crime-stories Become Murderers--if Any Do, It Is Not The Result Of Identifying Themselves With Their Murderous Heroes.