Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is despatched—love for instance—we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next.

. . . to walk alone in London is the greatest rest.

Among the tortures and devestations of life is this then - our friends are not able to finish their stories.

The world wavered and quivered and threatened to burst into flames.

It is probable that both in life and in art the values of a woman are not the values of a man.

I prefer men to cauliflowers

Our friends - how distant, how mute, how seldom visited and little known. And I, too, am dim to my friends and unknown; a phantom, sometimes seen, often not. Life is a dream surely.