Truth had run through my fingers. Every drop had escaped.

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Have you any notion how many books are written about women in the course of one year? Have you any notion how many are written by men? Are you aware that you are, perhaps, the most discussed animal in the universe?

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So that is marriage, Lily thought, a man and a woman looking at a girl throwing a ball.

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Every face, every shop, bedroom window, public-house, and dark square is a picture feverishly turned - in search of what? It is the same with books. What do we seek through millions of pages?

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If the best of one's feelings means nothing to the person most concerned in those feelings, what reality is left us?

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Human beings have neither kindness, nor faith, nor charity beyond what serves to increase the pleasure of the moment.

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That would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection; to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions; to be poor always and unkempt; to be ridiculous in Piccadilly.

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It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.

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Therefore I would ask you to write all kinds of books, hesitating at no subject however trivial or however vast. By hook or by crook, I hope that you will possess yourselves of money enough to travel and to idle, to contemplate the future or the past of the world, to dream over books and loiter at street corners and let the line of thought dip deep into the stream.

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The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme, the young translated into practice.

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