She had read a wonderful play about a man who scratched on the wall of his cell and she had felt that was true of life — one scratched on the wall.

Ransack the language as he might, words failed him. He wanted another landscape, and another tongue.

She belonged to a different age, but being so entire, so complete, would always stand up on the horizon, stone-white, eminent, like a lighthouse marking some past stage on this adventurous, long, long voyage, this interminable --- this interminable life.

To look life in the face, always, to look life in the face, and to know it for what it is...at last, to love it for what it is, and then, to put it away.

But I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing.

That great Cathedral space which was childhood.

All extremes are dangerous.