loveliness is infernally sad.

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.

It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.

I will dream today; for I must unscrew my head somehow.

It is useless to read Greek in translation; translators can but offer us a vague equivalent.

But he could not taste, he could not feel. In the teashop among the tables and the chattering waiters the appalling fear came over him- he could not feel. He could reason; he could read, Dante for example, quite easily…he could add up his bill; his brain was perfect; it must be the fault of the world then- that he could not feel.

The history of most women is hidden either by silence, or by flourishes and ornaments that amount to silence.