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.

It's weak and despicable to go on wanting things and not trying to get them.

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

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.

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