I used to worry about what life was for - now being alive seems sufficient reason.

Like a fierce wind roaring high up in the bare branches of trees, a wave of passion came over me, aimless but surging . . . I suppose it's lust, but it's awful and holy like thunder and lightning and the wind.

There seemed to be endless obstacles - it seemed that the root cause of them all was fear.

I want to feel myself part of things, of the great drift and swirl: not cut off, missing things, like being sent to bed early as a child, the blinds being drawn while the sun and cheerful voices came through the chink from the garden.

Perhaps if one really knew when one was happy one would know the things that were necessary in one's life.

Colour is, on the evidence of language alone, very bound up with the feelings.

I came to the conclusion then that "continual mindfulness". . . must mean, not a sergeantmajor-like drilling of thoughts, but a continual readiness to accept whatever came.