If one wanted beauty, one had only to rest one's eyes on her, so fine and old and lovely, like an ivory carving; flowing down like water into her cha… - Vita Sackville-West

Youth had no beauty like the beauty of an old face; the face of youth was an unwritten page.

I saw within the wheelwright’s shed The big round cartwheels, blue and red; A plough with blunted share; A blue tin jug; a broken chair; And paint in trial patchwork square Slapping up against the wall; The lumber of the wheelwright’s trade, And tools on benches neatly laid, The brace, the adze, the awl;

I believe that the main thing in beginning a novel is to feel, not that you can write it, but that it exists on the far side of a gulf, which words can't cross; that its to be pulled through only in a breathless anguish. [VW]

Often on the painted stair, As I passed abstractedly, Velvet footsteps, two and three, Padded gravely after me. — There was nothing, nothing there, Nothing there to see.