How far do our feelings take their colour from the dive underground? I mean, what is the reality of any feeling?

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

I am tied down with single words. But you wander off; you slip away; you rise up higher, with words and words in phrases.

For beyond the difficulty of communicating oneself, there is the supreme difficulty of being oneself.

I find that when I've seen a certain number of people my mind becomes like an old match box -- the part one strikes on, I mean.

Books are the mirrors of the soul.

The light struck upon the trees in the garden, making one leaf transparent and then another. One bird chirped high up; there was a pause; another chirped lower down. The sun sharpended the walls of the house, and rested like the tip of a fan upon a white blind and made a fingerprint of a shadow under the leaf by the bedroom window. The blind stirred slightly, but all within was dim and unsubstantial. The birds sang their blank melody outside.