In life, as in art, talking vitiates doing.
So many things I had thought forgotten Return to my mind with stranger pain: Like letters that arrive addressed to someone Who left the house so many years ago.
I have a sense of melancholy isolation, life rapidly vanishing, all the usual things. It’s very strange how often strong feelings don’t seem to carry any message of action.
How little our careers express what lies in us, and yet how much time they take up. It’s sad, really.
He married a woman to stop her getting away Now she’s there all day.
What are days for? Days are where we live. They come, they wake us Time and time over. Theyare to be happy in: Where can we live but days?