Ach, Tchekov! Why are you dead? Why canโt I talk to you in a big darkish room at late eveningโwhere the light is green from the waving trees outside? Iโd like to write a series of Heavens: that would be one.
Katherine Mansfieldconversation is like a dear little baby that is brought in to be handed round. You must rock it, nurse it, keep it on the move if you want it to keep smiling.
Katherine MansfieldLetters are the real curse of my existence. I hate to write them: I have to. If I don't, there they are - the great guilty gates barring my way.
Katherine MansfieldI want, by understanding myself, to understand others. I want to be all that I am capable of becoming.... This all sounds very strenuous and serious. But now that I have wrestled with it, it's no longer so. I feel happy- deep down. All is well.
Katherine Mansfield