The Living Blind And Seeing

Virginia Woolf, I Enjoyed Talking To Her, But Thought Nothing Of Her Writing. I Considered Her 'a Beautiful Little Knitter.

I Am Not Eccentric. It's Just That I Am More Alive Than Most People. I Am An Unpopular Electric Eel Set In A Pond Of Goldfish.

By 'happiness' I Do Not Mean Worldly Success Or Outside Approval, Though It Would Be Priggish To Deny That Both These Things Are Most Agreeable. I Mean The Inner Consciousness, The Inner Conviction That One Is Doing Well The Thing That One Is Best Fitted To Do By Nature.

The Reason Why Matthew Arnold, To My Feeling, Fails Entirely As A Poet (though No Doubt His Ideas Were Good - At Least, I Am Told They Were) Is That He Had No Sense Of Touch Whatsoever. Nothing Made Any Impression On His Skin. He Could Feel Neither The Shape Nor The Texture Of A Poem With His Hands.

The Great Sins And Fires Break Out Of Me Like The Terrible Leaves From The Bough In The Violent Spring. I Am A Walking Fire, I Am All Leaves.