Writing is still like heaving bricks over a wall.
Disastrous would have been the result if a fire or a death had suddenly demanded something heroic of human nature, but tragedies come in the hungry hours.
As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.
I am volatile for one, rigid for another, angular as an icicle in silver, or voluptuous as a candle flame in gold.
We shall be the mouthpieces of the divine spirit—
So the days pass, and I ask myself whether one is not hypnotized, as a child by a silver globe, by life, and whether this is living.