And another day is tucked under my wing.

General de Gaulle is again pictured in our newspapers, looking as usual like an embattled codfish.

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.

Of all damnable offenses preaching prudence to the young is the most damnable.

Only two things are real to me: my love and my death. In between them, I merely exist as a scatter of senses.

I seem to use this word 'kind' very frequently. When one is unhappy or anxious it is a quality one dwells on.

Happy is the day whose history is not written down.