It only makes one feel how one adores English prose, how to be a writer - is everything. I do believe that the time has come for a 'new word' but I imagine the new word will not be spoken easily. People have never explored the lovely medium of prose. It is a hidden country still - I feel that so profoundly.
July 1919, The Letters and Journals of Katherine Mansfield
There is a wharf not far from here where the sand barges unload. Do you know the smell of wet sand? Does it make you think of going to the beach in the evening light after a rainy day and gathering the damp drift wood (it will dry on top of the stove) and picking up for a moment the long branches of sea weed that the waves have tossed and listening to the gulls who stand reflected in the gleaming sand, and just fly a little way off as you come and then - settle again...
17 May 1915, The Letters and Journals of Katherine Mansfield
He simply said my name. He said 'Martha', and once again I could feel it happening. My legs trembled under the big white cloth and my head became fuzzy, though I was not drunk. It's how I fall in love.