The Maxim Of The British People Is

Have Not Manet And Monet, Cézanne And Matisse, Rendered To Painting Something Of The Same Service Which Keats And Shelley Gave To Poetry After The Solemn And Ceremonious Literary Perfections Of The Eighteenth Century? They Have Brought Back To The Pictorial Art A New Draught Of Joie De Vivre; And The Beauty Of Their Work Is Instinct With Gaiety, And Floats In Sparkling Air. I Do Not Expect These Masters Would Particularly Appreciate My Defence, But I Must Avow An Increasing Attraction To Their Work.

Science Unfolded Her Treasures And Her Secrets To The Desperate Demands Of Men, And Placed In Their Hands Agencies And Apparatus Almost Decisive In Their Character. Reflecting On The Outcome Of World War I, And An Ominous Future.

I Cannot Pretend To Be Impartial About The Colours. I Rejoice With The Brilliant Ones, And Am Genuinely Sorry For The Poor Browns.

You Create Your Own Universe As You Go Along. The Stronger Your Imagination, The More Variegated Your Universe. When You Leave Off Dreaming, The Universe Ceases To Exist.

There Is No Worse Mistake In Public Leadership Than To Hold Out False Hopes Soon To Be Swept Away. The British People Can Face Peril Or Misfortune With Fortitude And Buoyancy, But They Bitterly Resent Being Deceived Or Finding That Those Responsible For Their Affairs Are Themselves Dwelling In A Fool's Paradise.