Still, life had a way of adding day to day

As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.

The truer the facts the better the fiction.

We insist, it seems, on living.

Sometimes I think heaven must be one continuous unexhausted reading.

I am rooted, but I flow.

Reading [poetry], you know, is rather like opening the door to a horde of rebels who swarm out attacking one in twenty places at once - hit, roused, scraped, bared, swung through the air, so that life seems to flash by; then again blinded, knocked on the head - all of which are agreeable sensations for a reader (since nothing is more dismal than to open the door and get no response).