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.

What does the brain matter compared with the heart?

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

The way to rock oneself back into writing is this. First gentle exercise in the air. Second the reading of good literature. It is a mistake to think that literature can be produced from the raw. One must get out of life...one must become externalised; very, very concentrated, all at one point, not having to draw upon the scattered parts of one's character, living in the brain.

But then anyone who's worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, and with extravagant enthusiasm.

O friendship, I too will press flowers between the pages of Shakespeare's sonnets!

Until we can comprehend the beguiling beauty of a single flower, we are woefully unable to grasp the meaning and potential of life itself.