I am reading Henry James...and feel myself as one entombed in a block of smooth amber.

My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.

Those comfortably padded lunatic asylums which are known, euphemistically, as the stately homes of England.

He began to search among the infinite series of impressions which time had laid down, leaf upon leaf, fold upon fold softly, incessantly upon his brain; among scents, sounds; voices, harsh, hollow, sweet; and lights passing, and brooms tapping; and the wash and hush of the sea.

As for my next book, I won't write it till it has grown heavy in my mind like a ripe pear; pendant, gravid, asking to be cut or it will fall.

There are moments when one can neither think nor feel, she thought, and if one can neithre feel nor think, where's one?

No sooner have you feasted on beauty with your eyes than your mind tells you that beauty is vain and beauty passes