This is the feeling for syllable and rhythm, penetrating far below the conscious levels of thought and feeling, invigorating every word.

My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me. 'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak. 'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? 'I never know what you are thinking. Think.

Before a cat will condescend to treat you as a trusted friend, some little token of esteem is needed, like a dish of cream.

I learn a great deal by merely observing you, and letting you talk as long as you please, and taking note of what you do not say.

To become what you are not, behave as you do not.

He is haunted by a demon, a demon against which he feels powerless, because in its first manifestation it has no face, no name, nothing; and the words, the poem he makes, are a kind of exorcism of this demon.

And all shall be well and/ All manner of thing shall be well/ By the purification of the motive/ In the ground of our beseeching