I listen to money singing, it's like looking down from long French windows at a provincial town. The slums, the canal, the churches ornate and mad in the evening sun. It is intensely sad.
Depression is to me as daffodils were to Wordsworth.
Novels seem to me to be richer, broader, deeper, more enjoyable than poems.
Something, like nothing, happens anywhere.
In everyone there sleeps a sense of life lived according to love.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.