Arrange whatever pieces come your way.

I got out this diary, & read as one always does read one's own writing, with a kind of guilty intensity.

That complete statement which is literature.

To love makes one solitary.

Consolation for those moments when you can't tell whether you're the divinest genius or the greatest fool in the world.

She was like a crinkled poppy; with the desire to drink dry dust.

Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost. Life would split asunder without them. 'Come to tea, come to dinner, what's the truth of the story? have you heard the news? life in the capital is wonderful; the Russian dancers....' These are our stays and props. These lace our days together and make of life a perfect globe.