And now, my poor old woman, why are you crying so bitterly? It is autumn. The leaves are falling from the trees like burning tears- the wind howls. Why must you mimic them?

In the presence of real tragedy you feel neither pain nor joy nor hatred, only a sense of enormous space and time suspended, the great doors open to black eternity, the rising across the terrible field of that last enormous, unanswerable question.

Yet not with all of me am I in love. Too much of my own quietness is with me.

The sun sank with a sob and darkness waded in from all horizons so that the sky contracted and there was no more light left in the world, when, at this very moment of annihilation, the moon, as though she had been waiting for her cue, sailed up the night.

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

Noon, ripe as thunder and silent as thought, had fled unfingered.

I want a lot to eat, I'm going to think today.