Who would ever give up the reality of dreams for relative knowledge?

The success or failure of a life, as far as posterity goes, seems to lie in the more or less luck of seizing the right moment of escape

I wonder whether if I had an education I should have been more or less a fool that I am.

Who would ever give up the reality of dreams for relative knowledge?

If I can get on to my sofa and occupy myself for four hours, at intervals through the day, scribbling my notes, and able to read the books that belong to me, in that they clarify the density, and shape the formless mass within, life seems inconceivably rich.

I think that if I get into the habit of writing a bit about what happens, or rather doesn't happen, I may lose a little of the sense of isolation and desolation which abides with me. My circumstances allowing of nothing but the ejaculation of one-syllabled reflections, a written monologue by that most interesting being, myself, may have its yet to be discovered consolations.

What one reads, or rather all that comes to us, is surely only of interest and value in proportion as we find ourselves therein, -- form given to what was vague, what slumbered stirred to life.