I am overwhelmed with things I ought to have written about and never found the proper words.

There was a star riding through clouds one night, & I said to the star, 'Consume me'.

History is too much about wars; biography too much about great men.

I’m not clear enough in the head to feel anything but varieties of dull anger and arrows of sadness.

Until we can comprehend the beguiling beauty of a single flower, we are woefully unable to grasp the meaning and potential of life itself.

For it would seem - her case proved it - that we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver.

The melancholy river bears us on. When the moon comes through the trailing willow boughs, I see your face, I hear your voice and the bird singing as we pass the osier bed. What are you whispering? Sorrow, sorrow. Joy, joy. Woven together, like reeds in moonlight.