[On writing:] The most egotistic of occupations, and the most gratifying while it lasts.

Ambition, old as mankind, the immemorial weakness of the strong.

Things were not tragic for us then, because although we cared passionately we didn't care deeply.

I loved you when love was Spring, and May, Loved you when summer deepened into June, and now when autumn yellows all the leaves.

I suppose the pleasure of country life lies really in the eternally renewed evidences of the determination to live.

Everywhere bees go racing with the hours, / For every bee becomes a drunken lover, / Standing upon his head to sup the flowers.

One must be businesslike, although the glass is falling.