Safe! safe! safe!' the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry 'Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.

I find that when I've seen a certain number of people my mind becomes like an old match box -- the part one strikes on, I mean.

The telephone, which interrupts the most serious conversations and cuts short the most weighty observations, has a romance of its own.

So coming back from a journey, or after an illness, before habits had spun themselves across the surface, one felt that same unreality, which was so startling; felt something emerge. Life was most vivid then.

Lord, how tired one gets of one's own writing.

If one is to deal with people on a large scale and say what one thinks, how can one avoid melancholy? I don’t admit to being hopeless, though: only the spectacle is a profoundly strange one; and as the current answers don’t do, one has to grope for a new one, and the process of discarding the old, when one is by no means certain what to put in their place, is a sad one.

We live in constant danger of coming apart. The mystery of why we do not always come apart is the animating tension of all art.