To stand in a great bookshop crammed with books so new that their pages almost stick together, and the gilt on their backs is still fresh, has an excitement no less delightful than the old excitement of the second-hand bookstall.

No, she thought, one could say nothing to nobody. The urgency of the moment always missed its mark. Words fluttered sideways and struck the object inches too low.

Moreover, a book is not made of sentences laid end to end, but of sentences built, if an image helps, into arcades or domes.

The weather varies between heavy fog and pale sunshine; My thoughts follow the exact same process.

Different though the sexes are, they inter-mix. In every human being a vacillation from one sex to the other takes place, and often it is only the clothes that keep the male or female likeness, while underneath the sex is very opposite of what it is above.

How far do our feelings take their colour from the dive underground? I mean, what is the reality of any feeling?

The extraordinary woman depends on the ordinary woman.