To be alive and to be a ‘writer’ is enough.

In the woods where snow is thick, bars of sunlight lay like pale fire.

I think of you often. Especially in the evenings, when I am on the balcony and it’s too dark to write or to do anything but wait for the stars. A time I love. One feels half disembodied, sitting like a shadow at the door of one’s being while the dark tide rises. Then comes the moon, marvellously serene, and small stars, very merry for some reason of their own. It is so easy to forget, in a worldly life, to attend to these miracles.

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.

Better to write twaddle, anything, than nothing at all.

Wind moving through grass so that the grass quivers. This moves me with an emotion I don't even understand.

I am a recluse at present & do nothing but write & read & read & write