December
One
To hear a master play a scale, to catch that measured, tranquil succession of notes, each a different jewel of equal splendour, each dying precisely when the next was born—this is to perceive at last what music is made of, to have glimpses of the divine magic that is the soul of the divinest art.
Two
When the swimmer unclothes, and abandons himself to the water, naked, letting the water caress the whole of his nakedness, moving his limbs in voluptuous ease untrammelled by even the lightest garment, then, as never under other conditions, he is aware of his body; and perhaps the thought occurs to him that to live otherwise than in that naked freedom is not to live.
Three
Has it never struck you that you have at hand a machine wonderful beyond all mechanisms in sheds, intricate, delicately adjustable, of astounding and miraculous possibilities, interminably interesting? That machine is yourself.
Four
The sound reputation of an artist is originally due never to the public, but to the critics. I do not use the word “critic” in a limited, journalistic sense; it is meant to include all those persons, whether scribes or not, who have genuine convictions about art.
Five
The movement for opening museums on Sundays is the most natural movement that could be conceived. For if ever a resort was invented and fore-ordained to chime with the true spirit of the British Sabbath, that resort is the average museum.
Six
The manufacture of musical comedy is interesting and curious, but I am not aware that it has anything to do with dramatic art.
Seven
Though you have the wealth of a cloak-room attendant at the Carlton Hotel, you cannot buy yourself a minute more time than I have, or the cat by the fire has.
Eight
The man of business, even in the very daily act of deceit, will never yield up the conviction that, after all, at bottom he is crystal honest. It is his darling delusion.
Nine
Happiness is not joy, and it is not tranquillity. It is something deeper and something more disturbing. Perhaps it is an acute sense of life, a realisation of one’s secret being, a continual renewal of the mysterious savour of existence.
Ten
Our best plays, as works of art, are strikingly inferior to our best novels. A large section of the educated public ignores the modern English theatre as being unworthy of attention.
Eleven
Romance, interest, dwell not in the thing seen, but in the eye of the beholder.
Twelve
Every bookish person has indulgently observed the artless absorption and surrender with which a “man of action” reads when by chance a book captures him, his temporary monomania, his insistence that the bookish person shall share his joy, and his impatience at any exhibition of indifference. For the moment the terrible man of action is a child again; he who has straddled the world is like a provincial walking with open-mouthed delight through the streets of the capital.
Thirteen
The woman who quarrels with a maid is clumsy, and the woman who quarrels with a good maid is either a fool or in a nervous, hysterical condition, or both.
Fourteen
Men have a habit of taking themselves for granted, and that habit is responsible for nine-tenths of the boredom and despair on the face of the planet.
Fifteen
Anyone can learn to write, and to write well, in any given style; but to see, to discern the interestingness which is veiled from the crowd—that comes not by tuition; rather by intuition.
Sixteen
The forms of faith change, but the spirit of faith is immortal amid its endless vicissitudes.
Seventeen
Consider the attitude of Dissenters of the trading and industrial classes towards the art of literature.... That attitude is at once timid, antagonistic, and resentful. Timid, because print still has for the unlettered a mysterious sanction; antagonistic because Puritanism and the arts have by no means yet settled their quarrel; resentful because the autocratic power of art over the imagination and the intelligence is felt without being understood.
Eighteen
It is said that men are only interested in themselves. The truth is that, as a rule, men are interested in every mortal thing except themselves.
Nineteen
It is less difficult, I should say, to succeed moderately in journalism than to succeed moderately in dressmaking.
Twenty
Music cannot be said. One art cannot be translated into another.
Twenty-one
A deep-seated objection to the intrusion of even the most loved male at certain times is common, I think, to all women. Women are capable of putting love aside, like a rich dress, and donning the peignoir of matter-of-fact dailiness, in a way which is an eternal enigma to men.
Twenty-two
There’s nothing like a corpse for putting everything at sixes and sevens.
Twenty-three
Great grief is democratic, levelling—not downwards but upwards. It strips away the inessential and makes brothers. It is impatient with all the unavailable inventions which obscure the brotherhood of mankind.
Twenty-four
The expression of the soul by means of the brain and body is what we call the art of “living.”
Twenty-five
That Christmas has lost some of its magic is a fact that the common-sense of the western hemisphere will not dispute. To blink the fact is infantile. To confront it, to try to understand it, to reckon with it, and to obviate any evil that may attach to it—this course alone is meet for an honest man.
Twenty-six
It must be admitted in favour of the Five Towns that, when its inhabitants spill milk, they do not usually sit down on the pavement and adulterate the milk with their tears. They pass on. Such passing on is termed callous and coldhearted in the rest of England, which loves to sit down on pavements and weep into irretrievable milk.
Twenty-seven
At thirty the chances are that a man will understand better the draughts of a chimney than his own respiratory apparatus—to name one of the simple, obvious things; and as for understanding the working of his own brain—what an idea!
Twenty-eight
Science is making it increasingly difficult to conceive matter apart from spirit. Everything lives. Even my razor gets “tired.”
Twenty-nine
No book in any noble library is so interesting, so revealing, as the catalogue of it.
Thirty
Love is the greatest thing in life; one may, however, question whether it should be counted greater than life itself.
Thirty-one
The indispensable preparation for brain-discipline is to form the habit of regarding one’s brain as an instrument exterior to one’s self, like a tongue or a foot.