Looking back, I imagine I was always writing. Twaddle it was too. But better far write twaddle or anything, anything, than nothing at all.

Whatever happens I have had these blissful, perfect moments and they are worth living for.

What happiness it is to listen to rain at night; joyful relief, ease; a lapping-round and hushing and brooding tenderness, all are mingled together in the sound of the fast-falling rain. God, looking down upon the rainy earth, sees how faint are these lights shining in little windows, - how easily put out.

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

Once we have learned to read, meaning of words can somehow register without consciousness.

The ostrich burying its head in the sand does at any rate wish to convey the impression that its head is the most important part of it.

Who is to decide between 'Let it be' and 'Force it'?