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.

I do think all good and evil comes from words. I have to tune myself into a good temper with something musical, and I run to a book as a child to its mother.

I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

Do not move, do not go. Sink within this moment. Hold it for ever.

It is part of the novelist's convention not to mention soup and salmon and ducklings, as if soup and salmon and ducklings were of no importance.

Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigues, I have had my vision.

After that, how unbelievable death was! - that is must end; and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all.