Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.

For women live much more in the past...they attach themselves to places.

I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.

My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.

They lack suggestive power. And when a book lacks suggestive power, however hard it hits the surface of the mind it cannot penetrate within.

We scarcely wish to analyse what we feel to be so large and deeply human.

I ransack public libraries & find them full of sunk treasure.