Words, living and ghostly, the quick and the dead, crowd and jostle the otherwise too empty corridors of my mind ... To move among this bright, strange, often fabulous herd of beings, to summon them at my will, to fasten them on to paper like flies, that they may decorate it, this is the pleasure of writing.
Rose MacaulayTake my camel, dear,' said my aunt Dot, climbing down from that animal on her return from high Mass.
Rose MacaulayStill I sojourn here, alone and palely loitering, though the sedge is withered from the lake and no birds sing. For I sent the bath towel to the wash this morning, and omitted to put out another. I have no towel.
Rose MacaulayEach wrong act brings with it its own anesthetic, dulling the conscience and blinding it against further light, and sometimes for years.
Rose MacaulayTo be prejudiced is the privilege of the thinking human being. ... The open mind is the empty mind.
Rose Macaulay