It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.

Women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time.

Oh and I thought, as i was dressing, how interesting it would be to describe the approach of age, and the gradual coming of death. As people describe love. To note every symptom of failure: but why failure? To treat age as an experience that is different from the others; and to detect every one of the gradual stages towards death which is a tremendous experience, an not as unconscious, at least in its approaches, as death is.

and even a tea party means apprehension, breakage

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

So that is marriage, Lily thought, a man and a woman looking at a girl throwing a ball

I need a little language such as lovers use, words of one syllable such as children speak when they come into the room and find their mother sewing and pick up some scrap of bright wool, a feather, or a shred of chintz. I need a howl; a cry. When the storm crosses the marsh and sweeps over me where I lie in the ditch unregarded I need no words. Nothing neat. Nothing that comes down with all its feet on the floor. None of those resonances and lovely echoes that break and chime from nerve to nerve in our breasts making wild music, false phrases. I have done with phrases.