I enjoy the spring more than the autumn now. One does, I think, as one gets older.

My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?

How then did it work out, all this? How did one judge people, think of them? How did one add up this and that and conclude that it is liking one felt, or disliking?

She was like a crinkled poppy; with the desire to drink dry dust.

It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.

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

To want and not to have, sent all up her body a hardness, a hollowness, a strain. And then to want and not to have- to want and want- how that wrung the heart, and wrung it again and again!