Why have I so little control? It is the case of much waste and pain in my life.

You cannot find peace by avoiding life.

Like most uneducated Englishwomen, I like reading--I like reading books in the bulk.

My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.

Ransack the language as he might, words failed him. He wanted another landscape, and another tongue.

I’m not clear enough in the head to feel anything but varieties of dull anger and arrows of sadness.

So I have to create the whole thing afresh for myself each time. Probably all writers now are in the same boat. It is the penalty we pay for breaking with tradition, and the solitude makes the writing more exciting though the being read less so. One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with ones words.