King old ladies assure us that cats are often the best judges of character. A cat will always to to a good man, they say.

Yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.

For now she need not think of anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of - to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to be alone.

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.

...she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.

I am reading Henry James...and feel myself as one entombed in a block of smooth amber.

writing is the profound pleasure and being read the superficial.