literature is the record of our discontent.

If this were the time or the place to uphold a paradox, I am half inclined to state that Norfolk is one of the most beautiful of counties.

Words belong to each other.

I am volatile for one, rigid for another, angular as an icicle in silver, or voluptuous as a candle flame in gold.

Thinking is my fighting.

A thousand things to be written had I time: had I power. A very little writing uses up my capacity for writing.

It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.