The fount of joy was bubbling in thine eyes, Dancing was in thy feet, And on thy lips a laugh that never dies, Unutterably sweet. Dance on! for ever … - Vita Sackville-West

It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? for the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop. Growth is exciting; growth is dynamic and alarming. Growth of the soul, growth of the mind; how the observation of last year seems childish, superficial; how this year — even this week — even with this new phrase — it seems to us that we have grown to a new maturity. It may be a fallacious persuasion, but at least it is stimulating, and so long as it persists, one does not stagnate. I look back as through a telescope, and see, in the little bright circle of the glass, moving flocks and ruined cities.

Since one cannot have truth,’ cried Sebastian, struggling into his evening shirt, ‘let us at least have good manners.

With me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed, and I was prepared to miss you a good deal.