Until I Have Been Able To Bury

We Must Live By The Light Of Our Own Self-satisfaction, Through That Secret Vital Busy Inwardness Which Is Even More Remarkable Than Our Reason.

There Is Nothing Like The Bootless Solitude Of Those Who Are Caged Together.

Trains Induce Such Terrible Anxiety. They Image The Possibility Of Total And Irrevocable Failure. They Are Also Dirty, Rackety, Packed With Strangers, An Object Lesson In The Foul Contingency Of Life: The Talkative Fellow-traveller, The Possibility Of Children.

Mathematics Is Good For The Soul, Getting Things Right Enlivens A Sense Of Truth, Efforts To Understand Automatically Purify Desires.

All Art Is The Struggle To Be, In A Particular Sort Of Way, Virtuous.