One can write, think and pray exclusively of others; dreams are all egocentric.

We can trace almost all the disasters of English history to the influence of Wales.

Saints are simply men & women who have fulfilled their natural obligation which is to approach God.

That's the public-school system all over. They may kick you out, but they never let you down.

Perhaps all our loves are merely hints and symbols; vagabond-language scrawled on gate-posts and paving-stones along the weary road that others have tramped before us; perhaps you and I are types and this sadness which sometimes falls between us springs from disappointment in our search, each straining through and beyond the other, snatching a glimpse now and then of the shadow which turns the corner always a pace or two ahead of us.

that is not the last word; it is not even an apt word; it is a dead word from ten years back.

Dearest Charles-- I found a box of this paper at the back of a bureau so I must write to you as I am mourning for my lost innocence. It never looked like living. The doctors despaired of it from the start... I am never quite alone. Members of my family keep turning up and collecting luggage and going away again, but the white raspberries are ripe. I have a good mind not to take Aloysius to Venice. I don't want him to meet a lot of horrid Italian bears and pick up bad habits. Love or what you will. S.