Though He Had Very Little Latin Beyond

My Hand Is Very Tired But I Want To Go On Writing. I Keep Resting And Thinking. All Day I Have Been Two People - The Me Imprisoned In Yesterday And The Me Out Here On The Mound; And Now There Is A Third Me Trying To Get In - The Me In What Is Going To Happen Next.

He Stood Staring Into The Wood For A Minute, Then Said: "what Is It About The English Countryside — Why Is The Beauty So Much More Than Visual? Why Does It Touch One So?" He Sounded Faintly Sad. Perhaps He Finds Beauty Saddening — I Do Myself Sometimes. Once When I Was Quite Little I Asked Father Why This Was And He Explained That It Was Due To Our Knowledge Of Beauty's Evanescence, Which Reminds Us That We Ourselves Shall Die. Then He Said I Was Probably Too Young To Understand Him; But I Understood Perfectly.

Certain Unique Books Seem To Be Without Forerunners Or Successors As Far As Their Authors Are Concerned. Even Though They May Profoundly Influence The Work Of Other Writers, For Their Creator They're Complete, Not Leading Anywhere.

So Many Of The Loveliest Things In England Are Melancholy.

I Wonder If There Isn't A Catch About Having Plenty Of Money? Does It Eventually Take The Pleasure Out Of Things?