Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)

No sooner have you feasted on beauty with your eyes than your mind tells you that beauty is vain and beauty passes

I press to my centre, and find there is something there.

Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost. Life would split asunder without them. 'Come to tea, come to dinner, what's the truth of the story? have you heard the news? life in the capital is wonderful; the Russian dancers....' These are our stays and props. These lace our days together and make of life a perfect globe.

There is no doubt in my mind, that I have found out how to begin (at 40) to say something in my own voice.

I will not be "famous," "great." I will go on adventuring, changing, opening my mind and my eyes, refusing to be stamped and stereotyped. The thing is to free one's self: to let it find its dimensions, not be impeded.

So that the monotonous fall of the waves on the beach, which for the most part beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts seemed consolingly to repeat over and over again.