Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost.

Men felt a chill in their hearts; a damp in their minds. In a desperate effort to snuggle their feelings into some sort of warmth,one subterfuge was tried after anothersentences swelled, adjectives multiplied, lyrics became epics.

I find that when I've seen a certain number of people my mind becomes like an old match box -- the part one strikes on, I mean.

Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?

Consolation for those moments when you can't tell whether you're the divinest genius or the greatest fool in the world.

What a comfort is friendship in this world.

...so now, Mrs. Ramsay thought, she could return to that dream land, that unreal but fascinating place, the Manning's drawing-room at Marlow twenty years ago; where one moved about without haste or anxiety, for there was no future to worry about. She knew what had happened to them, what to her. It was like reading a good book again, for she knew the end of that story, since it had happened twenty years ago, and life, which shot down even from this dining-room table in cascades, heaven knows where, was sealed up there, and lay, like a lake, placidly between its banks.