“Classical and romantic: private language of a family quarrel, a dead dispute over the distribution of emphasis between man and nature.”
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The artist one day falls through a hole in the brambles, and from that moment he is following the dark rapids of an underground river which may sometimes flow so near to the surface that the laughing picnic parties are heard above.
It is only in the country that we can get to know a person or a book.
Words today are like the shells and rope of seaweed which a child brings home glistening from the beach and which in an hour have lost their luster.
There are many who dare not kill themselves for fear of what the neighbours will say.