In the 18th century we knew how everything was done, but here I rise through the air, I listen to voices in America, I see men flying- but how is it done? I can't even begin to wonder. So my belief in magic returns.

I got out this diary, & read as one always does read one's own writing, with a kind of guilty intensity.

Safe! safe! safe!' the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry 'Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.

I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

After that, how unbelievable death was! - that is must end; and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all.

Almost any biographer, if he respects facts, can give us much more than another fact to add to our collection. He can give us the creative fact; the fertile fact; the fact that suggests and engenders.

The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging.