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

Sometimes I find that in my happy moments I could not believe that I had ever been miserable.

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

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.

The growth of understanding follows an ascending spiral rather than a straight line.

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