Literature is no one’s private ground, literature is common ground; let us trespass freely and fearlessly and find our own way for ourselves.

I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.

The world wavered and quivered and threatened to burst into flames.

One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with one's words.

Who would not spout the family teapot in order to talk with Keats for an hour about poetry, or with Jane Austen about the art of fiction?

I am tied down with single words. But you wander off; you slip away; you rise up higher, with words and words in phrases.

A light here required a shadow there.