Conversation, fastidious goddess, loves blood better than brick, and feasts most subtly on the human will.

The Lighthouse was then a silvery, misty-looking tower with a yellow eye, that opened suddenly, and softly in the evening. Now— James looked at the Lighthouse. He could see the white-washed rocks; the tower, stark and straight; he could see that it was barred with black and white; he could see windows in it; he could even see washing spread on the rocks to dry. So that was the Lighthouse, was it? No, the other was also the Lighthouse. For nothing was simply one thing. The other Lighthouse was true too.

We live in constant danger of coming apart. The mystery of why we do not always come apart is the animating tension of all art.

But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.

I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you're everything that exists; the reality of everything.

But what a little I can get down into my pen of what is so vivid to my eyes, and not only to my eyes; also to some nervous fibre, or fanlike membrane in my species.

Why does one write these books after all? The drudgery, the misery, the grind, are forgotten everytime; and one launches another, and it seems sheer joy and buoyancy.