I am not so gifted as at one time seemed likely.

Does Nature supplement what man advanced? Or does she complete what he began?

There are moments when one can neither think nor feel, she thought, and if one can neithre feel nor think, where's one?

But then anyone who's worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, and with extravagant enthusiasm.

In certain favorable moods, memories -- what one has forgotten -- come to the top. Now if this is so, is it not possible -- I often wonder -- that things we have felt with great intensity have an existence independent of our minds; are in fact still in existence? And if so, will it not be possible, in time, that some device will be invented by which we can tap them?

Who would not spout the family teapot in order to talk with Keats for an hour about poetry, or with Jane Austen about the art of fiction?

In the 18th century we knew how everything was done, but here I rise through the air, I listen to voices in America, I see men flying- but how is it done? I can't even begin to wonder. So my belief in magic returns.