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'Mrs. Givings: Do you think we make sad things into songs in order to hold on to the sadness or to banish it - I think it is to banish the sadness. So then if you write a happy song, is it not sadder than a sad song because by making it you have banished your own happiness into a song?'

She's so damn darling.

I love these stage directions:

'Now remember that these are the days before digital pornography.
There is no cliche of how women are supposed to sound when they climax.
Mrs. Daldry's first orgasms could be very quiet, organic, awkward, primal. Or very clinical. Or embarrassingly natural. But whatever it is, it should not be a cliche, a camp version of how we expect all women to sound when they orgasm.'

'Mr. Daldry: I use an umbrella while it is raining.

Mrs. Givings: That's too bad. I find people who do not use umbrellas while it is raining horribly romantic. Strolling, no striding, through the rain, with wet hair, looking at a drop of water on a branch.

Mr. Daldry: My wife is one of those.

Mrs. Givings: Oh yes! I could see that.'

I would love to direct these characters.

'Dr. Givings: Mr. Daldry, your wife is suffering from hysteria...I recommend theraputic electrical massage - weekly - possibly daily, we shall see - sessions...You will soon have your blooming wife back.

Mr. Daldry: Thank you Dr. Givings. You have no idea what a source of anguish my wife's illness has been to me. And to her, of course.'

Good grief.

'Mrs. Daldry: I am breaking his heart. He likes me to be a certain way. Perhaps if I could play piano again but my fingers will not work.

Mr. Daldry: No, her fingers do not work. In the living room. Or in any other room, if you take my meaning, Dr. Givings.'

What a horrible little twat. Maybe if his fingers worked a bit, hers would spring back to life.

"A day or two later (which is how these things happen)"

Hehehehehehe.

"A doy or two later (which is how these things happen)"

Hehehehehehe.

'She is a delightful girl to give lunch to; very pretty, very decorative; drawing the eyes, admiring or envious, of all the other lunchers, but not (and this, I think, is her most charming characteristic) - not showing any consciousness of it: devoting herself with all her heart (if any), her soul (probably none) and her eyes (forget-me-not-blue) to her companion.'

So strangely caustic (albeit funny) for Milne!

Milne's "To the Reader" is enchanting. Dedicating the work to the reader, after anticipating her disappointment at the book being one of short stories, is darling and gallant. Also this: "completely revealing titles which are both attractive and as yet unused are hard to come by...one should expect A TABLE NEAR THE BAND to offer a view of other tables, at each one of which some story may well be in the making."

'Two hours of lively discussion on Original sin and Predestination followed. Finally, Remy stood to speak - she'd never done so before, and the room fell silent. She said softly, "If there is Predestination, then God is the devil." No one could argue with that - what kind of God would intentionally design Ravensbruck?'

Weeping. This book is dehydrating me severely.

'Remy watched the sea breathe in and out. Then she said, "It would have been better for her not to have such a heart."
Yes, but worse for the rest of us.'

I'm sobbing.

'It's two in the morning, I have not a fingernail to my name, and I look at least a hundred years old.'

This is my life.

'Sidney is having a grand time at Isola's house. They apparently sat up late talking last night. Isola doesn't approve of small talk and believes in breaking the ice by stomping on it.'

Lovely and familiar and exactly what I always want.

Giggling:

"I had a small supper party for him - cooked by me alone, and edible, too. Will Thisbee gave me The Beginner's Cook-Book for Girl Guides. It was just the thing; the writer assumes you know nothing about cookery and writes useful hints - 'When adding eggs, break the shells first.'"

Heeh!

I've been dreading this. I should have known better. There will be a lot of things in this book, but no miracles. Sobbing.

'You really have to be Kit's height to see this world properly. She's grand at pointing out certain things I would otherwise miss - butterflies, spiders, flowers growing tiny and low to the ground - they're hard to see when you are faced with a blazing wall of fuchsias and bougainvillea.'

I wish I were short. Better still I wish I were five AND A QUARTER.

Defense of "shelf clutter" (ahem, Patrick):

'She was a noticer, Sidney, like me, for all the shelves are lined with shells, bird feathers, dried sea grasses, pebbles, eggshells, and the skeleton of something that might be a bat. They're just bits that were lying on the ground, that anyone else would step over or on, but she saw they were beautiful and brought them home.'

See 'The Slow Regard of Silent Things'.

'All those people I've come to know and even love a little, waiting to see - me. And I, without any paper to hind behind. Sidney, in these past two or three years, I have become better at writing than living - and think what you do to my writing. On the page, I'm perfectly charming, but that's just a trick I learned. It has nothing to do with me.'

I KNOW THAT FEELS.

'Dearest Sophie,

I wish you were here. I wish we still lived together in our lovely little studio and worked in dear Mr. Hawke's shop and ate crackers and cheese for supper every night. I want so much to talk to you.'

Me and Lydia. Most letters begin with wishing for the Sugarloaf gnome home, or Saturday bakery runs with the co-op's gjetost or fluffy goat cheese and pitted dates. That phone must get fixed.

Familiar:

'I don't know what ails Adelaide Addison. Isola says she is a blight because she likes being a blight - it gives her a sense of destiny.'

The easiest, most obnoxious attainable destiny. Harumph.

May I remember to leave people and their business alone. Amen.

'Did any of you ever think that along about the time the notion of a SOUL gave out, Freud popped up with the EGO to take its place? The timing of the man! Did he not pause to reflect? Irresponsible old coot! It is my belief that men must spout this twaddle about egos, because they fear they have no soul.'

Heeh!

I'm in love with Juliet's coziness, her joie de vivre (or, more accurately, her joie de optimisme - I don't do French).

'Spring is nearly here. I'm almost warm in my puddle of sunshine.'

I live for all the puddles of sunshine.

'Seneca. Do you know who he was? He was a Roman philosopher who wrote letters to imaginary friends telling them how to behave for the rest of their lives. Maybe that sounds dull, but the letters aren't - they're witty. I think you learn more if you're laughing at the same time.'

I couldn't agree more.

'...I asked what his favorite animal was. And your answer told me everything I needed to know about him - how many men would admit that they loved ducks?'

Familiar and lovely.

'Your questions regarding that gentleman are very delicate, very subtle, very much like being smacked in the head with a mallet. Am I in love with him? What kind of a question is that? It's a tuba among the flutes, and I expect better of you. The first rule of snooping is to come at it sideways - when you began writing me dizzy letters about Alexander, I didn't ask if you were in love with him...'

'I do not have a pleasing appearance. My nose is big and was broken when I fell off the hen-house roof. One eyeball skitters up to the top, and my hair is wild and will not stay tamped down. I am tall and built of big bones.'

I'm in love.

Really, though. The frank cheeriness of it all. I call that bravery. My vanity weeps over the occasional pimple.

'I like stories of passionate encounters. I myself have never had one, but now I can picture one.'

My...my feels. And my fifteen-year-old sympathies.

On the Brontes:

Their Pa was a selfish thing, wasn't he? Always sitting in his study, yelling for his shawl...And their brother, Branwell, he wasn't much either. Always drinking and sicking up on the carpets...with two such men in the household and no way to meet others, Emily had to make Heathcliff up out of thin air! And what a fine job she did. Men are more interesting in books than they are in real life.

'I would never make fun of anyone who loved to read.'

Well I could just kiss you.

I squawked when I read this - I have a horrible laugh when I'm caught off guard:

'Dear Sidney,

Don't believe the newspaper reports. Juliet was not arrested and taken away in handcuffs. She was merely reproved by one of Bradford's constables, and he could barely keep a straight face.
She did throw a teapot at Gilly Gilbert's head, but don't believe his claim that she scalded him; the tea was cold.'

Heeh!