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

I'm sick to death of this particular self. I want another.

Let us not take for granted that life exists more fully in what is commonly thought big than in what is commonly thought small.

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

... if we can imagine the art of fiction come alive and standing in our midst, she would undoubtedly bid us to break her and bullyher, as well as honour and love her, for so her youth is renewed and her sovereignty assured.

She felt... how life, from being made up of little separate incidents which one lived one by one, became curled and whole like a wave which bore one up with it and threw one down with it, there, with a dash on the beach.

To know whom to write for is to know how to write.