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

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.

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.

Perhaps it does not matter so very much what it is one loves in this world. But love something one must.

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.

I always felt that the great high privilege, relief and comfort of friendship was that one had to explain nothing.

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.