Virginia Woolf, I Enjoyed Talking To Her,

One's Own Surroundings Means So Much To One, When One Is Feeling Miserable.

[history Is] That Terrible Mill In Which Sawdust Rejoins Sawdust.

By The Time I Was Eleven Years Old, I Had Been Taught That Nature, Far From Abhorring A Vacuum, Positively Adores It.

If Certain Critics And Poetasters Had Their Way, 'ordinary Piety' And Its Child, Dullness, Would Be The Masters Of Poetry.

White As A Winding Sheet, Masks Blowing Down The Street: Moscow, Paris London, Vienna - All Are Undone. The Drums Of Death Are Mumbling, Rumbling, And Tumbling, Mumbling, Rumbling, And Tumbling, The World's Floors Are Quaking, Crumbling And Breaking.