If life has a base that it stands upon, if it is a bowl that one fills and fills and fills - then my bowl without a doubt stands upon this memory. It is of lying half asleep, half awake, in bed in the nursery at St. Ives. It is of hearing waves breaking one, two, one, two, behind a yellow blind. It is of hearing the blind draw its little acorn across the floor as the wind blew the blind out. It is of lying and hearing this splash and seeing this light, and feeling, it is almost impossible that I should be here; of feeling the purest ecstasy I can conceive.

Virginia Woolf, Moments of Being

Talk to ME. I'm lonely. I haven't one single soul.

17 November 1920, Katherine Mansfield, Letters and Journals

I have burned to write to you ever since you were here last.

April, 1919, Katherine Mansfield, Letters and Journals

Domingos Espírito Santo Alvão, Sem Título, c. 1910/13

How we alone of mortals are
Hid under quiet boughs apart,
While our love grows an Indian star,
A meteor of the burning heart

The Indian to His Love, William Butler Yeats

To the woman who could not live with her faulty heart