I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.
I may never be happy, but tonight I am content. At times like this I'd call myself a fool to ask for more.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.
I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.
My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.