What does the brain matter compared with the heart

Dearest I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we cant go through another of those terrible times. And I shant recover this time. I begin to hear voices and I cant concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I dont think two people could have been happier til this terrible disease came. I cant fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I cant even write this properly. I cant read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I cant go on spoiling your life any longer. I dont think two people could have been happier than we have been. V.

Love the poet said is womans whole existence.

One cannot think well love well sleep well if one has not dined well.

Hail happiness then and after happiness hail not those dreams which bloat the sharp image as spotted mirrors do the face in a country-inn parlour dreams which splinter the whole and tear us asunder and wound us and split us apart in the night when we would sleep but sleep sleep so deep that all shapes are ground to dust of infinite softness water of dimness inscrutable and there folded shrouded like a mummy like a moth prone let us lie on the sand at the bottom of sleep.

I desired always to stretch the night and fill it fuller and fuller with dreams.

When the white arm rests upon the knee it is a triangle now it is upright - a column now a fountain falling. It makes no sign it does not beckon it does not see us. Behind it roars the sea. It is beyond our reach. Yet there I venture. There I go to replenish my emptiness to stretch my nights and fill them fuller and fuller with dreams. And for a second even now even here I reach my object and say Wander no more. All is trial and make-believe. Here is the end.

He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.

I told you in the course of this paper that Shakespeare had a sister but do not look for her in Sir Sidney Lees life of the poet. She died young--alas she never wrote a word. She lies buried where the omnibuses now stop opposite the Elephant and Castle. Now my belief is that this poet who never wrote a word and was buried at the crossroads still lives. She lives in you and in me and in many other women who are not here tonight for they are washing up the dishes and putting the children to bed. But she lives for great poets do not die they are continuing presences they need only the opportunity to walk among us in the flesh.

There must be another life she thought sinking back into her chair exasperated. Not in dreams but here and now in this room with living people. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice with her hair blown back she was about to grasp something that just evaded her. There must be another life here and now she repeated. This is too short too broken. We know nothing even about ourselves.