We Cling To Our Last

I Want So To Live That I Work With My Hands And My Feeling And My Brain. I Want A Garden, A Small House, Grass, Animals, Books, Pictures, Music. And Out Of This, The Expression Of This, I Want To Be Writing (though I May Write About Cabmen. That’s No Matter.) But Warm, Eager, Living Life — To Be Rooted In Life — To Learn, To Desire, To Feel, To Think, To Act. This Is What I Want. And Nothing Less. That Is What I Must Try For.

The Pleasure Of All Reading Is Doubled When One Lives With Another Who Shares The Same Books.

To Work - To Work! It Is Such Infinite Delight To Know That We Still Have The Best Things To Do.

If Only One Could Tell True Love From False Love As One Can Tell Mushrooms From Toadstools. With Mushrooms It Is So Simple - You Salt Them Well, Put Them Aside And Have Patience. But With Love, You Have No Sooner Lighted On Anything That Bears Even The Remotest Resemblance To It Than You Are Perfectly Certain It Is Not Only A Genuine Specimen, But Perhaps The Only Genuine Mushroom Ungathered.

There Does Seem To Me Something Sad In Life. It Is Hard To Say What It Is. I Don't Mean The Sorrow That We All Know, Like Illness And Poverty And Death. No, It Is Something Different. It Is There, Deep Down, Deep Down, Part Of One, Like One's Breathing.