Life stand still here.
I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.
Odd how the creative power at once brings the whole universe to order.
Writing is a divine art, and the more I write and read the more I love it.
For the eye has this strange property: it rests only on beauty.
It was odd, she thought, how if one was alone, one leant to inanimate things; trees, streams, flowers; felt they expressed one; felt they became one; felt they knew one, in a sense were one; felt an irrational tenderness thus (she looked at that long steady light) as for oneself.