I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.
Each has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by his heart, and his friends can only read the title.
You cannot find peace by avoiding life.
Dearest, I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier 'til this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that – everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been. V.
anyone who’s worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, and with extravagant enthusiasm.
I am rooted, but I flow.
