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.

letters are venerable; and the telephone valiant, for the journey is a lonely one, and if bound together by notes and telephones we went in company, perhaps - who knows? - we might talk by the way.

Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us.

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.

If it were now to die, 'twere now to be most happy.

That would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection; to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions; to be poor always and unkempt; to be ridiculous in Piccadilly.

Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death!