Marvelous are the innocent.

My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.

I'm fundamentally, I think, an outsider. I do my best work and feel most braced with my back to the wall. It's an odd feeling though, writing aginst the current: difficult entirely to disregard the current. Yet of course I shall.

Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.

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

For beyond the difficulty of communicating oneself, there is the supreme difficulty of being oneself.

There is no room for the impurities of literature in an essay.