Do you remember your childhood? I am always coming across these marvelous accounts by writers who declare that they remember 'everything.' I certainly don't. The dark stretches, the blanks, are much bigger than the bright glimpses. I seem to have spent most of my time like a plant in a cupboard.

Whenever I prepare for a journey I prepare as though for death. Should I never return, all is in order.

Regret is an appalling waste of time.

I think I hate snow, downright hate it. There is something stupefying in it, a kind of 'You must be worse before you're better,' and down it spins.

My love for you tonight is so deep and tender that it seems to be outside myself as well.

The great thing to remember is we can do whatever we wish to do provided our wish is strong enough.

In fact, isn't it a joy - there is hardly a greater one - to find a new book, a living book, and to know that it will remain with you while life lasts?