Words today are like the shells and rope of seaweed which a child brings home glistening from the beach and which in an hour have lost their luster. – Cyril Connolly
The artist one day falls through a hole in the brambles, and from that moment he is following the dark rapids of an underground river which may sometimes flow so near to the surface that the laughing picnic parties are heard above. – Cyril Connolly

