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Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of...more

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Some people go to priests others to poetry I to my friends.

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You send a girl to school in order to make friends - the right sort.

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When the body escaped mutilation, seldom did the heart go to the grave unscarred.

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They say the sky is the same everywhere. Travellers, the shipwrecked, exiles, and the dying draw comfort from the thought[.]

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He is forced to coin words himself, and, taking his pain in one hand, and a lump of pure sound in the other (as perhaps the people of Babel did in the...more

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Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living?

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Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.

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For while directly we say that it [the length of human life] is ages long, we are reminded that it is briefer than the fall of a rose leaf to the grou...more

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This self now as I leant over the gate looking down over fields rolling in waves of colour beneath me made no answer. He threw up no opposition. He at...more

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Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)

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Among the tortures and devastations of life is this then—our friends are not able to finish their stories.

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But for pain words are lacking. There should be cries, cracks, fissures, whiteness passing over chintz covers, interference with the sense of time, of...more

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We became six people at a table in Hampton Court. We rose and walked together down the avenue. In the thin, the unreal twilight, fitfully like the ech...more

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We are only lightly covered with buttoned cloth; and beneath these pavements are shells, bones and silence.