I will go down with my colours flying.

Suppose the looking glass smashes, the image disappears, and the romantic figure with the green of forest depths all about it is there no longer, but only that shell of a person which is seen by other people - what an airless, shallow, bald, prominent world it becomes! A world not to be lived in. As we face each other in omnibuses and underground railways we are looking into the mirror that accounts for the vagueness, the gleam of glassiness, in our eyes.

Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.

Beauty was not everything. Beauty had this penalty — it came too readily, came too completely. It stilled life — froze it.

We all indulge in the strange, pleasant process called thinking, but when it comes to saying, even to someone opposite, what we think, then how little we are able to convey! The phantom is through the mind and out of the window before we can lay salt on

I enjoy the spring more than the autumn now. One does, I think, as one gets older.

Surely it was time someone invented a new plot, or that the author came out from the bushes.