If only he could be alone in his room working, he thought, among his books. That was where he felt at his ease.

Why does Samuel Butler say, ‘Wise men never say what they think of women?’ Wise men never say anything else apparently.

I feel certain that I’m going mad again, I feel we can’t go thru another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices

But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking?-the entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self that took the veil and left the world-a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.

I find myself saying briefly and prosaically that it is much more important to be oneself than anything else. Do not dream of influencing other people, I would say, if I knew how to make it sound exalted.

Listen. There is a sound like the knocking of railway trucks in a siding. That is the happy concatenation of one event following another in our lives. Knock, knock, knock. Must, must, must. Must go, must sleep, must wake, must get up – sober, merciful word which we pretend to revile, which we press tight to our hearts, without which we should be undone. How we worship that sound like the knocking together of trucks in a siding!

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