How lovely goodness is in those who, stepping lightly, go smiling through the world.

We read Charlotte Bronte not for exquisite observation of character - her characters are vigorous and elementary; not for comedy - hers is grim and crude; not for a philosophic view of life - hers is that of a country parson's daughter; but for her poetry. Probably that is so with all writers who have, as she has, an overpowering personality, so that, as we say in real life, they have only to open the door to make themselves felt.

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

I was so pleased and excited by your letter that I trotted about all day like a puppy with a bone.

But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? The entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self that took the veil and left the world -- a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.

No sooner have you feasted on beauty with your eyes than your mind tells you that beauty is vain and beauty passes

Criticism? An artist wants praise. Praise.