The writing of words can lead to all sorts of absurdities.

If I can write everything out plainly, perhaps I will myself understand better what has happened.

There is this thing called life. We live it, not as we intend or wish, but as we are driven on by forces outside and inside ourselves.

Work accomplished means little. It is in the past. What we all want is the glorious and living present.

...she thought that something unexpressed in herself came forth and became a part of an unexpressed something in them.

I am a lover and have not found my thing to love.

I think that those of us who are what are called intellectuals make a terrible mistake in overvaluing the yen we have for the arts, books, etc. There is a sweet, fine quality in life that has nothing to do with this, and more and more I find myself valuing myself with those people.