Deep down there was understanding, not of the facts of our lives so much as of our essential natures.

It is dark now. The snow is deep blue and the ocean nearly black. It is time for some music.

One has only to set a loved human being against the fact that we are all in peril all the time to get back a sense of proportion. What does anything matter compared to the reality of love and its span, so brief at best, maintained against such odds?

I can tell you that solitude Is not all exaltation, inner space Where the soul breathes and work can be done. Solitude exposes the nerve, Raises up ghosts. The past, never at rest, flows through it.

How slowly one comes to understand anything!

About loving, I have little to learn from the young.

It is, I assume, quite easy to wither into old age, and hard to grow into it.