It Is Curious How Any Making Of

A Great Silence Has Descended On Me For The Last Six Months. I Am As Silent As An Arab In The Desert, As Dry, Thirsty, And Full Of Wonder And Rumours Which Do Not Materialize Into Camels Or Travellers At All, But Just Vanish Into The Silent Spaces From Where They Came. I Expect This Is A Good Thing Though It Is Extremely Irritating - The Brink Of A Voice And Never A Voice.

Women Are At Last Becoming Persons First And Wives Second, And That Is As It Should Be.

In The Novel Or The Journal You Get The Journey. In A Poem You Get The Arrival.

[in Old Age] There Is A Childlike Innocence, Often, That Has Nothing To Do With The Childishness Of Senility. The Moments Become Precious . . .

Routine Is Not A Prison, But The Way Into Freedom From Time.