The earth was overwhelmed with beauty and indifferent to it, and I went with a heart
ready to crack for its unbearable loveliness.
What is sanity, after all, except the control of madness.
The things we felt most are hardest to put into words. Hate is always easier to speak of than love. How shall I make love go through the sieve of words and come out something besides a pulp?
Lord make me satisfied with small things. Make me content to live on the outside of life. God make me love the rind!
I cannot believe this is the end. Nor can I believe that death is more than the blindness of those living. And if this is only the consolation of a heart in its necessity, or that easy faith born of despair, it does not matter, since it gives us courage somehow to face the mornings. Which is as much as the heart can ask at times.
But only in mad people fear goes on constant night and day, wearing one ditch in the mind that all thoughts must travel in.
Most people have the blindness of new-born things - a not-incurable blindness, the sight being there but its use not known.