O sacred solitary empty mornings, tranquil mediation - fruit of book-case and clock-tick, of note-book and armchair; golden and rewarding silence, influence of sun-dappled plane-trees, far-off noises of birds and horses, possession beyond price of a few cubic feet of air and an hour of leisure! This vacuum of peace is the state from which art should proceed, for art is made by the alone for the alone, and now this cerulean atmosphere which we should all be able to take for granted, has become an unattainable end.
- Cyril Connolly, The Unquiet Grave