But then anyone who's worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, and with extravagant enthusiasm.

I mean it's the writing, not the being read, that excites me.

In fact, though their acquaintance had been so short, they had guessed, as always happens between lovers, everything of any importance about each other in two seconds at the utmost, and it now remained only to fill in such unimportant details as what they were called; where they lived; and whether they were beggars or people of substance.

Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things. Still, life had a way of adding day to day

There was a day when I liked writing letters -- it has gone. Unfortunately the passion for getting them remains.

The interest in life does not lie in what people do, nor even in their relations to each other, but largely in the power to communicate with a third party, antagonistic, enigmatic, yet perhaps persuadable, which one may call life in general.

The world was going on as usual. All the time she was writing the world had continued.