Let it be fact, one feels, or let it be fiction; the imagination will not serve under two masters simultaneously.

She came into a room; she stood, as he had often seen her, in a doorway with lots of people round her. But it was Clarissa one remembered. Not that she was striking; not beautiful at all; there was nothing picturesque about her; she never said anything specially clever; there she was however; there she was.

I feel my brains, like a pear, to see if it's ripe; it will be exquisite by September.

She had the perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very, dangerous to live even one day.

O friendship, I too will press flowers between the pages of Shakespeare's sonnets!

[Final diary entry:] Occupation is essential. And now with some pleasure I find that it's seven; and must cook dinner. Haddock and sausage meat. I think it is true that one gains a certain hold on sausage and haddock by writing them down.

Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)