New gods arise when they are needed.

in mad people fear goes on constantly, night and day, wearing one ditch in the mind that all thoughts must travel in.

... love and fear increase together with a precision almost mathematical: the greater the love is then the greater the fear is.

The dead elm leaves hung like folded bats.

The woods seemed all answer and healing and more than enough to live for.

I am sick of war. Every woman of my generation is sick of war. Fifty years of war. Wars rumored, wars beginning, wars fought, wars ending, wars paid for, wars endured.

Everything drops away, comes to be unimportant in the dark. It's like sleep almost. A freedom from self, from ugliness.