There Is No Going Back

No Person Will Ever Get Into My Blood As A Place Can ... People And Things Pass Away, But Not Places.

I Wish I Was A Woman Of About Thirty-six Dressed In Black Satin With A String Of Pearls.

I Wondered Why It Was That Places Are So Much Lovelier When One Is Alone.

Writing Every Book Is Like A Purge; At The End Of It One Is Empty ... Like A Dry Shell On The Beach, Waiting For The Tide To Come In Again.

I Felt Rather Exhausted, And Wondered, Rather Shocked At My Callous Thought, Why Old People Were Sometimes Such A Strain. Worse Than Young Children Or Puppies Because One Had To Be Polite.