When along the pavement, Palpitating flames of life, People flicker around me, I forget my bereavement, The gap in the great constellation, The place where a star used to be

Only this shimmeriness is the real living. The shape is a dead crust. The shimmer is inside really.

There was a warmth of fury in his last phrases. He meant she loved him more than he her. Perhaps he could not love her. Perhaps she had not in herself that which he wanted. It was the deepest motive of her soul, this self-mistrust. It was so deep she dared neither realise nor acknowledge. Perhaps she was deficient. Like an infinitely subtle shame, it kept her always back. If it were so, she would do without him. She would never let herself want him. She would merely see.

Every man has a mob self and an individual self, in varying proportions.

He felt he had lost it for good, he knew what it was to have been in communication with her, and to be cast off again. In misery, his heart like a heavy stone, he went about unliving.

If it be not true to me, What care I how true it be.. Though it be not true to thee, It's gay and gospel truth to me.

Why doesn't the past decently bury itself, instead of sitting waiting to be admired by the present?