There Is Nothing More Lovely In Life

[on Writing:] The Most Egotistic Of Occupations, And The Most Gratifying While It Lasts.

A Letter, By Its Arrival, Defrauds Us Of A Whole Secret Region Of Our Existence, The Only Region Indeed In Which The True Pleasure Of Life May Be Tasted, The Region Of Imagination, Creative And Protean, The Clouds And Beautiful Shapes Of Whose Heaven Are Destroyed By The Wind Of Reality.

Travel Is A Private Pleasure, Since It Consists Entirely Of Things Felt And Things Seen.

I Like Muddling Things Up; And If A Herb Looks Nice In A Border, Then Why Not Grow It There? Why Not Grow Anything Anywhere So Long As It Looks Right Where It Is? That Is, Surely, The Art Of Gardening.

It Is A Sad Moment When The First Phlox Appears. It Is The Amber Light Indicating The End Of The Great Burst Of Early Summer And Suggesting That We Must Now Start Looking Forward To Autumn. Not That I Have Any Objection To Autumn As A Season, Full Of Its Own Beauty; But I Just Cannot Bear To See Another Summer Go, And I Recoil From What The First Hint Of Autumn Means.