Half one's notions of other people were, after all, grotesque. They served private purposes of one's own.
Jane Austen is the most difficult to catch in the act of greatness.
Still, life had a way of adding day to day.
Heaven knows what virtue it has, this ecstatic book.
In the midst of chaos there was shape; this eternal passing and flowing… was struck into stability.
Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living?