I made myself into an envelope into which I could thrust my work deep, lick the flap, seal it from everybody.

I wonder why we are always sort of ashamed of our best parts and try to hide them. We don't mind ridicule of our 'sillinesses' but of our 'sobers'.

Writing is a strong easement for perplexity. My life is a map, spread out with all the rivers and hills showing.

What a splendid time Woo must have had.

I made myself into an envelope into which I could thrust my work deep, lick the flap, seal it from everybody.

I think that one's art is a growth inside one. I do not think one can explain growth. It is silent and subtle. One does not keep digging up a plant to see how it grows.

The earth is soaked and soggy with rain. Everything is drinking its fill and the surplus gluts the drains. The sky is full of it and lies low over the earth, heavy and dense. Even the sea is wetter than usual!