HenConOutHal

‘I seem fated to pass through the world without colliding with it or moving it — and I'm sure I can't tell you whether the fate's good or evil. I don't die — I don't fall in love. And if other people die or fall in love they always do it when I'm just not there.’ Reading English at Oxford.

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told her I liked concealments I hated the thought of this letter

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have just written so far, and am better – Hail! all hail my journal! thou kind beguiler of many an irksome thought and many a solitary hour – thou friend of old! thou faithful mentor that hast calmed alike the burst of joy and grief, and taught my soul to hoard its best resources far from the reach of human gasp!

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I longed for a nut shell to live quietly in and yet the thought of her and the parting distressed me —

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Cease then, nor order imperfection name:

Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.

Know thy own point: This kind, this due degree

Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee.

Submit.—In this, or any other sphere,

Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear:

Safe in the hand of one disposing pow'r,

Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.

All nature is but art, unknown to thee;

All chance, direction, which thou canst not see;

All discord, harmony, not understood;

All partial evil, universal good:

And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite,

One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right.

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poor fellow! such a thing as a journal was quite foreign to him – he seemed quite astonished when I calmly said I could tell what I had said and done for the last 21 years past quite as well as for the last Sunday but one

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Against the Charms our Ballox have How weak all human skill is Since they can make a Man a slave To such a Bitch as Willis .

Whom that I may describe throughout Assist me Bawdy Powers I'le write upon a double Clowt And dipp my Pen in Flowers.

Her looks demurely Impudent Ungainly Beautifull Her modesty is insolent Her witt both pert and dull.

A Prostitute to all the Town And yet with no man Freinds She rails and scolds when she lyes down And Curses when she Spends.

Bawdy in thoughts, precise in Words, Ill natur'd though a Whore, Her Belly is a Bagg of Turds, And her Cunt a Common shore.

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“I need a little language such as lovers use, words of one syllable such as children speak when they come into the room and find their mother sewing and pick up some scrap of bright wool, a feather, or a shred of chintz. I need a howl; a cry. When the storm crosses the marsh and sweeps over me where I lie in the ditch unregarded I need no words. Nothing neat. Nothing that comes down with all its feet on the floor. None of those resonances and lovely echoes that break and chime from nerve to nerve in our breasts making wild music, false phrases. I have done with phrases.”

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