People Are Usually Made Dames For Virtues

Virginia Woolf's Writing Is No More Than Glamorous Knitting. I Believe She Must Have A Pattern Somewhere.

Tall Windows Show Infinity; And, Hard Reality, The Candles Weep And Pry And Dance Like Lives Mocked At By Chance. The Rooms Are Vast As Sleep Within; When Once I Ventured In, Chill Silence, Like A Surging Sea, Slowly Enveloped Me.

I'm Not The Man To Baulk At A Low Smell, I'm Not The Man To Insist On Asphodel. This Sounds Like A He-fellow, Don't You Think? It Sounds Like That. I Belch, I Bawl, I Drink.

The Public Will Believe Anything, So Long As It Is Not Founded On Truth.

I Have Taken This Step Because I Want The Discipline, The Fire And The Authority Of The Church. I Am Hopelessly Unworthy Of It, But I Hope To Become Worthy.