Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.

What is more true than anything else? To swim is true and to sink is true. One cannot speak any more of being, one must speak onlyof the mess.

For the only way one can speak of nothing is to speak of it as though it were something, just as the only way one can speak of God is to speak of him as though he were a man, which to be sure he was, in a sense, for a time, and as the only way one can speak of man, even our anthropologists have realized that, is to speak of him as though he were a termite.

Silence and darkness were all I craved. Well, I get a certain amount of both. They being one.

What kind of country is this where a woman can't weep her heart out on the highways and byways without being tormented by retired bill-brokers!

We could have saved sixpence. We could have saved fivepence. But at what cost?

All the things you would do gladly, oh without enthusiasm, but gladly, all the things there seems no reason for your not doing, and that you do not do! Can it be we are not free? It might be worth looking into.