Writing is still like heaving bricks over a wall.

The word-coining genius, as if thought plunged into a sea of words and came up dripping.

I [who] am perpetually making notes in the margin of my mind for some final statement.

Waves of hands, hesitations at street corners, someone dropping a cigarette into the gutter-all are stories. But which is the true story? That I do not know. Hence I keep my phrases hung like clothes in a cupboard, waiting for some one to wear them. Thus waiting, thus speculating, making this note and then an· other I do not cling to life. I shall be brushed like a bee from a sunflower. My philosophy, always accumulating, welling up moment by moment, runs like quicksilver a dozen ways at once.

I like to have space to spread my mind out in.

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

If this were the time or the place to uphold a paradox, I am half inclined to state that Norfolk is one of the most beautiful of counties.