But something held me back. Perhaps I was stopped by that level of feeling, deeper than thought, which contains the truth.

There was no harm in taking aim, even if the target was a dream.

The summer of 1943 at Exeter was as happy a time as I ever had in my life.

So the more things remained the same, the more they changed after all. Nothing endures. Not love, not a tree, not even a death by violence.

Exeter was, I suspect, more crucial in my life than in the lives of most members of my class, and conceivably, than in the lives of almost anyone else who ever attended the school.

Looking back now across fifteen years I could see with great clarity the fear I had lived in, which must mean that in the interval I had succeeded in a very important undertaking: I must have made my escape from it.

What I mean is, I love winter, and when you really love something, then it loves you back, in whatever way it has to love.