Sleep seems to hammer out for me the logical conclusions of my vague days$$$ and offer them to me as dreams.

Sleep is still most perfect$$$ in spite of hygienists$$$ when it is shared with a beloved.

The world is a raving idiot$$$ and no man can kill it: though I'll do my best. But youre right. We must rescue ourselves as best we can.

You can't fool people into loving you.

She thought she loved$$$ she thought she was full of love.

These are the times that try men's souls.

Author says he suffered from both "a craving to be famous" and "a horror of being known to like being known."

Our own life has to be our message.

A man can learn much$$$ but learning is not knowledge. The only true source of infallible certainity is divine illumination.

That Arthur has not always existed seems odd to me. Like the wind on the moors and the wild winter stars$$$ surely he has always lived . . . and always will.