Tools Have Their Own Integrity.

It Is Dreadful How I Miss You, And Everything That Everybody Says Seems Flat And Stupid.

It Is No Good My Telling You. One Never Believes Other People's Experiencem And One Is Only Very Gradually Convinced By One's Own.

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

For Bees Are Captious Folk / And Quick To Turn Against The Lubber's Touch.

Prose Is A Poor Thing, A Poor Inadequate Thing, Compared With Poetry Which Says So Much More In Shorter Time.