I need a little language such as lovers use, words of one syllable such as children speak when they come into the room and find their mother sewing and pick up some scrap of bright wool, a feather, or a shred of chintz. I need a howl; a cry. When the storm crosses the marsh and sweeps over me where I lie in the ditch unregarded I need no words. Nothing neat. Nothing that comes down with all its feet on the floor. None of those resonances and lovely echoes that break and chime from nerve to nerve in our breasts making wild music, false phrases. I have done with phrases.

Speech is an old torn net, through which the fish escape as one casts it over them.

Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.

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

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

every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works, yet we require critics to explain the one and biographers to expound the other. That time hangs heavy on people's hands is the only explanation of the monstrous growth.

How far do our feelings take their colour from the dive underground? I mean, what is the reality of any feeling?