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.
A good poem about failure is a success.
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?
Above all, though, children are linked to adults by the simple fact that they are in process of turning into them. For this they may be forgiven much. Children are bound to be inferior to adults, or there is no incentive to grow up.
I think writing about unhappiness is probably the source of my popularity, if I have any – after all, most people are unhappy, don’t you think?
I am always trying to ‘preserve’ things by getting other people to read what I have written, and feel what I felt.
One of the quainter quirks of life is that we shall never know who dies on the dame day as we do ourselves.
Here is an unfenced existance.