Boys in uniform, carrying guns, marched with their eyes ahead of them, marched, their arms stiff, and on their faces an expression like the letters of a legend written round the base of a statue praising duty, gratitude, fidelity, love of England.

All extremes of feeling are allied with madness.

To catch those unrecorded gestures, those unsaid or half-said words, which form themselves, no more palpably than the shows of moths on the ceiling, when women are alone, unlit by the capricious and coloured light of the other sex.

I catch your eye. I, who had been thinking myself so vast, a temple, a church, a whole universe, confined and capable of being everywhere on the verge of things and here too, am now nothing but what you see.

Let us go, then, exploring, this summer morning, when all are adoring the plum blossom and the bee.

Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost.

I love and I hate. I desire one thing only.