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.

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.

When an arguer argues dispassionately he thinks only of the argument.

To let oneself be carried on passively is unthinkable.

The way to rock oneself back into writing is this. First gentle exercise in the air. Second the reading of good literature. It is a mistake to think that literature can be produced from the raw. One must get out of life...one must become externalised; very, very concentrated, all at one point, not having to draw upon the scattered parts of one's character, living in the brain.

In illness words seem to possess a mystic quality.

I read the book of Job last night, I don't think God comes out well in it.