making order out of disorder any time, anywhere, can be regarded as a sacrament.
For inside all the weakness of old age, the spirit, God knows, is as mercurial as it ever was.
letters are so much easier than living. One can give one's best.
The gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.
Do we always make our freedom out of someone else's bondage?
[In old age] there is a childlike innocence, often, that has nothing to do with the childishness of senility. The moments become precious . . .