One must love everything.

They say the sky is the same everywhere. Travellers, the shipwrecked, exiles, and the dying draw comfort from the thought.

To want and not to have, sent all up her body a hardness, a hollowness, a strain. And then to want and not to have- to want and want- how that wrung the heart, and wrung it again and again!

The sigh of all the seas breaking in measure round the isles soothed them; the night wrapped them; nothing broke their sleep, until, the birds beginning and the dawn weaving their thin voices in to its whiteness

The art of writing has for backbone some fierce attachment to an idea.

The world was going on as usual. All the time she was writing the world had continued.

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