Happiness Is Not A Possession To Be

No Person Will Ever Get Into My Blood As A Place Can ... People And Things Pass Away, But Not Places.

Here Was A Silence Between Them For A Moment, And She Wondered If All Women, When In Love, Were Torn Between Two Impulses, A Longing To Throw Modesty And Reserve To The Winds And Confess Everything, And An Equal Determination To Conceal The Love Forever, To Be Cool, Aloof, Utterly Detached, To Die Rather Than Admit A Thing So Personal, So Intimate.

All Whispers And Echoes From A Past That Is Gone Teem Into The Sleeper's Brain, And He Is With Them, And Part Of Them.

Sometimes It’s A Sort Of Indulgence To Think The Worst Of Ourselves. We Say, ‘now I Have Reached The Bottom Of The Pit, Now I Can Fall No Further,’ And It Is Almost A Pleasure To Wallow In The Darkness. The Trouble Is, It’s Not True. There Is No End To The Evil In Ourselves, Just As There Is No End To The Good. It’s A Matter Of Choice. We Struggle To Climb, Or We Struggle To Fall. The Thing Is To Discover Which Way We’re Going.

Writing Every Book Is Like A Purge; At The End Of It One Is Empty ... Like A Dry Shell On The Beach, Waiting For The Tide To Come In Again.