I could hear rain still pouring from the gutters and a thin branch scraping against one of the windows; but the church seemed completely cut off from the restless day outside--just as I felt cut off from the church. I thought: I am a restlessness inside a stillness inside a restlessness.

Walking down Belmotte was the oddest sensation-- every step took us deeper into the mist until at last it closed over our heads. It was like being drowned in the ghost of water.

Ham with mustard is a meal of glory

I only want to write. And there's no college for that except life.

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.

Even a broken heart doesn't warrant a waste of good paper.

So many of the loveliest things in England are melancholy.