Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder. Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange.

There was a day when I liked writing letters -- it has gone. Unfortunately the passion for getting them remains.

Well, we must wait for the future to show.

Criticism? An artist wants praise. Praise.

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

I am in the mood to dissolve in the sky.

All extremes of feeling are allied to madness.