For now she need not think of anybody. She coud be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of - to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others... and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures.

I'm sick to death of this particular self. I want another.

literature is the record of our discontent.

It was the intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.

How lovely goodness is in those who, stepping lightly, go smiling through the world.

Language is wine upon the lips.

What a comfort is friendship in this world.