Almost everybody wore a curious limpidity of expression, like newborn babies or souls just after death. Dazed but curiously dignified.... after a criseof hysterical revulsion and tiredness, I passed beyondand became entered by a rather sublime feeling.

Every love has a poetic relevance of its own; each love brings to light only what to it is relevant. Outside lies the junk-yard of what does not matter.

Some people are molded by their admirations, others by their hostilities.

... any fictionis bound to be transposed autobiography.

No, it is not only our fate but our business to lose innocence, and once we have lost that, it is futile to attempt a picnic in Eden.

Mechanical difficulties with language are the outcome of internal difficulties with thought.

Also, perhaps children are sterner than grown-up people in their refusal to suffer, in their refusal, even, to feel at all.