There is something about a bureaucrat that does not like a poem.

Despite the warnings of other times, the impetuous and the confident continue their indiscriminate cultivation of weeds at the expense of occasional flowers.

It is curious how often one prefers his enemies to his friends.

It is the spirit of the age to believe that any fact, no matter how suspect, is superior to any imaginative exercise, no matter how true.

Novels, except as aids to masturbation, play no part in contemporary life.

World events are the work of individuals whose motives are often frivolous, even casual.

Actually there is no such thing as a homosexual person, any more than there is such a thing as a heterosexual person. The words are adjectives describing sexual acts, not people. Those sexual acts are entirely natural; if they were not, no one would perform them.

Many human beings enjoy sexual relations with their own sex; many don't; many respond to both. This plurality is part of our nature and not worth fretting about.

Universities are filled with poets and novelists conducting demure and careful lives in imitation of Eliot and Forster and those others who (through what seems to be have been discretion) made it.

It never occurred to any Enlightenment figure in the eighteenth century that law was not preferable to man.