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?

Truth had run through my fingers. Every drop had escaped.

I need silence, and to be alone and to go out, and to save one hour to consider what has happened to my world, what death has done to my world.

If it were now to die, 'twere now to be most happy.

So that is marriage, Lily thought, a man and a woman looking at a girl throwing a ball

I’m not clear enough in the head to feel anything but varieties of dull anger and arrows of sadness.

The truer the facts the better the fiction.