Nobody Ever Dies Of An Indignity.

Only In A House Where One Has Learnt To Be Lonely Does One Have This Solicitude For Things. One's Relation To Them, The Daily Seeing Or Touching, Begins To Become Love, And To Lay One Open To Pain.

Spoilt Pleasure Is A Sad, Unseemly Thing; You Can Only Bury It.

...though One Can Be Callous In Ireland One Cannot Be Wholly Opaque Or Material. An Unearthly Disturbance Works In The Spirit; Reason Can Never Reconcile One To Life; Nothing Allays The Wants One Cannot Explain.

But In General, For The Purposes Of Most Novelists, The Number Of Objects Genuinely Necessary For. . .describing A Scene Will Be Found To Be Very Small.

Don't You Understand That All Language Is Dead Currency? How They Keep On Playing Shop With It All The Same.