When I am grown up I shall carry a notebook—a fat book with many pages, methodically lettered. I shall enter my phrases.

We are nauseated by the sight of trivial personalities decomposing in the eternity of print.

There was no treachery too base for the world to commit.

Style is a very simple matter; it is all rhythm. Once you get that, you can't use the wrong words. But on the other hand here am I sitting after half the morning, crammed with ideas, and visions, and so on, and can't dislodge them, for lack of the right rhythm. Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than any words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it.

On the outskirts of every agony sits some observant fellow who points.

For it is probable that when people talk aloud, the selves (of which there may be more than two thousand) are conscious of disserverment, and are trying to communicate but when communication is established there is nothing more to be said.

I will dream today; for I must unscrew my head somehow.