Not till the end of the war will there be any time for art or love or magic again. Perhaps never again.

Sink twice before you strike out for land.

Armed with madness, I go on a long voyage.

I cannot remember a time when I was not enraptured or tortured by words. Always there have been words which, sometimes for their sound alone, sometimes for their sound and sense, I would not use. From a loathing of their grossness or sickliness, their weight or want of weight. Their inexactitude, their feeling of acidity or insipidity. Their action, not only on the intelligence but on the nerves, was instant.

For watching death, and above all, after death; not death in battle, but death after battle, brings one to certain indifferences that are also a form of death.

Nature has a counterpart, a representation of every interior mood and obscure perception of man.

It is in the nature of any effort to leave something serviceable behind it.