They call them the haunted shores, these stretches of Devonshire and Cornwall and Ireland which rear up against the westward ocean. Mists gather here, and sea fog, and eerie stories. That's not because there are more ghosts here than in other places, mind you. It's just that people who live hereabouts are strangely aware of them.

I am a restlessness inside a stillness inside a restlessness.

Oh, wise young judge.

Why is summer mist romantic and autumn mist just sad?

Thinking of death--strange, beautiful, terrible and a long way off--made me feel happier than ever.

My hand is very tired but I want to go on writing. I keep resting and thinking. All day I have been two people - the me imprisoned in yesterday and the me out here on the mound; and now there is a third me trying to get in - the me in what is going to happen next.

Death is too much to ask of the living.