I enjoy almost everything. Yet I have some restless searcher in me. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay hands on and say “This is it”? My depression is a harassed feeling. I’m looking: but that’s not it — that’s not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it?

And now more than anything I want beautiful prose. I relish it more and more exquisitely.

Surely it was time someone invented a new plot, or that the author came out from the bushes.

One has to secrete a jelly in which to slip quotations down people's throats - and one always secretes too much jelly.

I am tied down with single words. But you wander off; you slip away; you rise up higher, with words and words in phrases.

You send a boy to school in order to make friends - the right sort.

I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life.