As I grow old I hate the writing of letters more and more, and like getting them better and better.

Why, he wondered, did people who had been asleep always want to make out that they were extremely wide-awake?

Our apparitions, the things you know us by, are simply childish. Beneath it is all dark, it is all spreading, it is unfathomably deep; but now and again we rise to the surface and that is what you see us by.

This is not writing at all. Indeed, I could say that Shakespeare surpasses literature altogether, if I knew what I meant.

Jealousy ... survives every other passion of mankind.

Let us record the atoms as they fall upon the mind in the order in which they fall.

what she loved: life, London, this moment of june.