I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual

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.

A very elementary exercise in psychology, not to be dignified by the name of psycho-analysis, showed me, on looking at my notebook, that the sketch of the angry professor had been made in anger. Anger had snatched my pencil while I dreamt. But what was anger doing there? Interest, confusion, amusement, boredom--all these emotions I could trace and name as they succeeded each other throughout the morning. Had anger, the black snake, been lurking among them? Yes, said the sketch, anger had.

One should be a painter. As a writer, I feel the beauty, which is almost entirely colour, very subtle, very changeable, running over my pen, as if you poured a large jug of champagne over a hairpin.

Incessant company is as bad as solitary confinement.

Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)

Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all be pure