... any fictionis bound to be transposed autobiography.

When one is a child, the disposition of objects, tables and chairs and doors, seems part of the natural order: a house-move lets in chaos - as it does for a dog.

Illusions are art, for the feeling person, and it is by art that we live, if we do.

Wariness had driven away poetry; from hesitating to feel came the moment when you no longer could.

To the sun Rome owes its underlying glow, and its air called golden - to me, more the yellow of white wine; like wine it raises agreeability to poetry.

The child lives in the book; but just as much the book lives in the child.

...there must be something she wanted; and that therefore she was no lady.