About here, she thought, dabbling her fingers in the water, a ship had sunk, and she muttered, dreamily half asleep, how we perished, each alone.

How lovely goodness is in those who, stepping lightly, go smiling through the world.

Orlando naturally loved solitary places, vast views, and to feel himself for ever and ever and ever alone.

I want the concentration and the romance, and the worlds all glued together, fused, glowing: have no time to waste any more on prose.

The hatchet must fall on the block; the oak must be cleft to the centre. The weight of the world is on my shoulders. Here is the pen and the paper; on the letters in the wire basket I sign my name, I, I, and again I.

Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.

I want to think quietly, calmly, spaciously, never to be interrupted, never to have to rise from my chair, to slip easily from one thing to another, without any sense of hostility, or obstacle. I want to sink deeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard separate facts.