A few days back someone sent me two feathers. Two bird's feathers in a sheet of note-paper with a coronet, and fastened with a seal. Sent from a place a long way off; from one who need not have sent them back at all. That amused me too, those devilish green feathers.

Heaven knows that there are plenty of opportunities in later life, too, for being carried away. What of it? We remain what we are and, no doubt, it is all very good for us!

Do not forget, some give little, and it is much for them, others give all, and it costs them no effort; who then has given most?

And love was creation's source,creation's ruler; but all love's ways are strewn with blossoms and blood, blossoms and blood.

The other one he loved like a slave, like a madman and like a beggar. Why? Ask the dust on the road and the falling leaves, ask the mysterious God of life; for no one knows such things. She gave him nothing, no nothing did she give him and yet he thanked her. She said: Give me your peace and your reason! And he was only sorry she did not ask for his life.

The whisper of the blood and the pleading of the bone marrow.

When good befalls a man he calls it Providence, when evil fate.