Still, life had a way of adding day to day
Who would not spout the family teapot in order to talk with Keats for an hour about poetry, or with Jane Austen about the art of fiction?
I think writing, my writing, is a species of mediumship. I become the person.
Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?
So that is marriage, Lily thought, a man and a woman looking at a girl throwing a ball
I want the concentration and the romance, and the worlds all glued together, fused, glowing: have no time to waste any more on prose.