Life piles up so fast that I have no time to write out the equally fast rising mound of reflections.

After all, what is a lovely phrase? One that has mopped up as much Truth as it can hold.

The mind must be allowed to settle undisturbed over the object in order to secrete the pearl.

If we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women.

You cannot cross the narrow bridge of art carrying all its tools in your hands. Some you must leave behind.

She tapped on the window with her embossed hairbrush. They were too far off to hear. The drone of the trees was in their ears; the chirp of birds; other incidents of garden life, inaudible, invisible to her in the bedroom, absorbed them. Isolated on a green island, hedged about with snowdrops, laid with a counterpane of puckered silk, the innocent island floated under her window. Only George lagged behind.

And you wish to be a poet; and you wish to be a lover.