One need not write in a diary what one is to remember for ever.

[On an anarchist acquaintance:] Everything in appearance the most alarmist aunt could wish.

The Church has lost a great religious poet in me; but I have lost an infinity of fun in the church, so the loss is even.

Wealth, if not a mere flash in the pan, compels the wealthy to become wealthier.

about ten days ago I got started on a new book, and am completely, brazenly devoted to it: my hair is uncut, my letters are unwritten, the house is a shambles, and I sit here as happy as Mrs. Jellaby, though I am in 1836, not Africa. It won't go on like this, I shall fall over some obstacle, and wake out of my dreams with a black eye and broken shins: but while it does last, I daren't interrupt it. I haven't had such a spell of writing for nearly three years.

London life was very full and exciting [...] But in London there would be no greenhouse with a glossy tank, and no apple-room, and no potting-shed, earthy and warm, with bunches of poppy heads hanging from the ceiling, and sunflower seeds in a wooden box, and bulbs in thick paper bags, and hanks of tarred string, and lavender drying on a tea-tray.

Total grief is like a minefield. No knowing when one will touch the tripwire.