But what is more to the point is my belief that the habit of writing thus for my own eye only is good practice. It loosens the ligaments. Never mind the misses and the stumbles.

But the close withdrew: the hand softened. It was over-- the moment.

I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.

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

We scarcely wish to analyse what we feel to be so large and deeply human.

The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark.

The art of writing has for backbone some fierce attachment to an idea.