youth, when it is hurt, likes to feel itself betrayed.
Let your fiction grow out of the land beneath your feet.
William Tavener never heeded ominous forecasts in the domestic horizon, and he never looked for a storm until it broke.
I shall not die of a cold. I shall die of having lived.
How terrible it was to love people when you could not really share their lives!
There is something frank and joyous and young in the open face of the country. It gives itself ungrudgingly to the moods of the season, holding nothing back.