Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.

I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you're everything that exists; the reality of everything.

Why, if it was an illusion, not praise the catastrophe, whatever it was, that destroyed illusion and put truth in it's place?

When the body escaped mutilation, seldom did the heart go to the grave unscarred.

Money dignifies what is frivolous if unpaid for.

But what is more to the point is my belief that the habit of writing thus for my own eye only is good practice. It loosens the ligaments. Never mind the misses and the stumbles.

Peter would think her sentimental. So she was. For she had come to feel that it was the only thing worth saying – what one felt. Cleverness was silly. One must say simply what one felt.