You rail on us all for not being saints.""Yes, yes, yes. And when I stop that railing I shall be dead. It is the only thing I know and I shall cry it out again and again, like a tedious little bird with only one song.

It's much better that I should read the letter. Otherwise I shall be endlessly wondering what was in it.

You know when things get inside you and you can't stop going round and round the same piece of misery.

In this connection I must mention too a not altogether rational idea which I had nourished more or less vaguely for a long time: the notion that before I could achieve greatness as a writer I would have to pass through some ordeal. For this ordeal I had waited in vain. Even total war (I was never in uniform) failed to ruffle my life. I seemed doomed to quietness.

It is unfortunately for us both also the truth that I love you and only you utterly and permanently and to distraction.

Bereavement is my occupation and it absorbs me completely. You want me to touch you, to look at you with sympathy. I cannot.

He had lived throughout upon magic, upon romantic love in its fullest sense, and this magic, now that she was gone, seemed sometimes likely to kill him.

I've thought about nothing else but you.