True gardeners cannot bear a glove Between the sure touch and the tender root.

Miracles cannot be explained, that is their miraculous nature.

Here life goes on, even and monotonous on the surface, full of lightning, of summits and of despair, in its depths. We have now arrived at a stage in life so rich in new perceptions that cannot be transmitted to those at another stage - one feels at the same time full of so much gentleness and so much despair - the enigma of this life grows, grows, drowns one and crushes one, then all of a sudden in a supreme moment of light one becomes aware of the sacred.

A great silence has descended on me for the last six months. I am as silent as an Arab in the desert, as dry, thirsty, and full of wonder and rumours which do not materialize into camels or travellers at all, but just vanish into the silent spaces from where they came. I expect this is a good thing though it is extremely irritating - the brink of a voice and never a voice.

People are always talking about the joys of youth-but, oh, how youth can suffer!

Inside my mother's death / I lay and could not breathe.

Death does frame a person and somehow it is the good that stays.