For what use are books to anyone whose days are like a rook's nest with every twig a duty.

There are times when the air that floats between mortals becomes, in its stillness and silence, as cruel as the edge of a scythe.

Something to remember, that: cats for missiles.

Through her, in microcosm, the wide earth sobbed. The starglobe sank in her; the colours faded. The death-dew rose and the wild birds in her breast climbed to her throat and gathered songless, hovering, all tumult, wing to wing, so ardent for those climes where all things end.

There is a brotherhood among the kindly- Closer and defter and more integral- Than any of aisle or coven- For love rang out before the chapel bell

Each day I live in a glass room unless I break it with the thrusting of my senses and pass through the splintered walls to the great landscape.

To live at all is miracle enough.