There was a serenity about him always that had the look of innocence, when, technically, the word was no longer applicable.

The man who is aware of himself is henceforward independent; and he is never bored, and life is only too short, and he is steeped through and through with a profound yet temperate happiness.

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.

I do not want to be admired. I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions.

O friendship, I too will press flowers between the pages of Shakespeare's sonnets!

But I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing.

Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death!