“I made no more protests. What was the use of struggling against fate”

“A well chosen anthology is a complete dispensary of medicine for the more common mental disorders, and may be used as much for prevention as cure.”

“I, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus This-that-and-the-other (for I shall not trouble you yet with all my titles) who was once, and not so long ago either, known to my friends and relatives and associates as "Claudius the Idiot", or "That Claudius", or "Claudius the Stammerer", or "Clau-Clau-Claudius" or at best as "Poor Uncle Claudius", am now about to write this strange history of my life; starting from my earliest childhood and continuing year by year until I reach the fateful point of change where, some eight years ago, at the age of fifty-one, I suddenly found myself caught in what I may call the "golden predicament" from which I have never since become disentangled.”

“Welsh Incident 'But that was nothing to what things came outFrom the sea-caves of Criccieth yonder.'What were they? Mermaids? dragons? ghosts?'Nothing at all of any things like that.'What were they, then?' 'All sorts of queer things,Things never seen or heard or written about,Very strange, un-Welsh, utterly peculiarThings. Oh, solid enough they seemed to touch,Had anyone dared it. Marvellous creation,All various shapes and sizes, and no sizes,All new, each perfectly unlike his neighbour,Though all came moving slowly out together.'Describe just one of them.' 'I am unable.'What were their colours?' 'Mostly nameless colours,Colours you'd like to see; but one was puceOr perhaps more like crimson, but not purplish.Some had no colour.' 'Tell me, had they legs?'Not a leg or foot among them that I saw.'But did these things come out in any order?'What o'clock was it? What was the day of the week?Who else was present? How was the weather?'I was coming to that. It was half-past threeOn Easter Tuesday last. The sun was shining.The Harlech Silver Band played Marchog JesuOn thrity-seven shimmering instrumentsCollecting for Caernarvon's (Fever) Hospital Fund.The populations of Pwllheli, Criccieth,Portmadoc, Borth, Tremadoc, Penrhyndeudraeth,Were all assembled. Criccieth's mayor addressed themFirst in good Welsh and then in fluent English,Twisting his fingers in his chain of office,Welcoming the things. They came out on the sand,Not keeping time to the band, moving seawardSilently at a snail's pace. But at lastThe most odd, indescribable thing of allWhich hardly one man there could see for wonderDid something recognizably a something.'Well, what?' 'It made a noise.' 'A frightening noise?'No, no.' 'A musical noise? A noise of scuffling?'No, but a very loud, respectable noise ---Like groaning to oneself on Sunday morningIn Chapel, close before the second psalm.'What did the mayor do?' 'I was coming to that.”

“And what thoughts or memories, would you guess, were passing through my mind on this extraordinary occasion? Was I thinking of the Sibyl's prophecy, of the omen of the wolf-cub, of Pollio's advice, or of Briseis's dream? Of my grandfather and liberty? Of my grandfather and liberty? Of my three Imperial predecessors, Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, their lives and deaths? Of the great danger I was still in from the conspirators, and from the Senate, and from the Gaurds battalions at the Camp? Of Messalina and our unborn child? Of my grandmother Livia and my promise to deify her if I ever became Emperor? Of Postumus and Germanicus? Of Agrippina and Nero? Of Camilla? No, you would never guess what was passing through my mind. But I shall be frank and tell you what it was, though the confession is a shameful one. I was thinking, 'So, I'm Emperor, am I? What nonsense! But at least I'll be able to make people read my books now. Public recitals to large audiences. And good books too, thirty-five years' hard work in them. It wont be unfair. Pollio used to get attentive audiences by giving expensive dinners. He was a very sound historian, and the last of the Romans. My history of Carthage is full of amusing anecdotes. I'm sure that they'll enjoy it.”

“The function of poetry is religious invocation of the muse; its use is the experience of mixed exaltation and horror that her presence excites.”

“Nor had I any illusions about Algernon Charles Swinburne, who often used to stop my perambulator when he met it on Nurses’ Walk, at the edge of Wimbledon Common, and pat me on the head and kiss me: he was an inveterate pram-stopper and patter and kisser.”