When the heart is flooded with love there is no room in it for fear, for doubt, for hesitation.

I have been overcome by the beauty and richness of our life together, those early mornings setting out, those evenings gleaming with rivers and lakes below us, still holding the last light.

Why is it that you can sometimes feel the reality of people more keenly through a letter than face to face?

One writes not to be read but to breathe...one writes to think, to pray, to analyze. One writes to clear one's mind, to dissipate one's fears, to face one's doubts, to look at one's mistakes--in order to retrieve them. One writes to capture and crystallize one's joy, but also to disperse one's gloom. Like prayer--you go to it in sorrow more than joy, for help, a road back to 'grace'.

The nicest gifts are those left, nameless and quiet, unburdened with love, or vanity, or the desire for attention.

Beauty cannot disguise nor music melt A pain undiagnosable but felt.

What release to write so that one forgets oneself, forgets one's companion, forgets where one is or what one is going to do next to be drenched in sleep or in the sea. Pencils and pads and curling blue sheets alive with letters heap up on the desk.