In a happy marriage there is a continuous dense magnetic sense of communication.

A middling talent makes for a more serene life.

My heart was beating like an army on the march.

Literature could be said to be a sort of disciplined technique for arousing certain emotions.

How rarely can happiness be really innocent and not triumphant, not an insult to the deprived.

Then I felt too that I might take this opportunity to tie up a few loose ends, only of course loose ends can never be properly tied, one is always producing new ones. Time, like the sea, unties all knots. Judgements on people are never final, they emerge from summings up which at once suggest the need of a reconsideration. Human arrangements are nothing but loose ends and hazy reckoning, whatever art may otherwise pretend in order to console us.

So we live; a spirit that broods and hovers over the continual death of time, the lost meaning, the unrecaptured moment, the unremembered face, until the final chop that ends all our moments and plunges that spirit back into the void from which it came.