That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.
They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.
Well, I can't describe her exactly-except to say that she was beautiful. She was-tremendously alive.
You really ought to read more books - you know, those things that look like blocks but come apart on one side.
And after reading Thoreau I felt how much I have lost by leaving nature out of my life.
He was resentful against all those in authority over him, and this, combined with a lazy indifference toward his work, exasperated every master in school. He grew discouraged and imagined himself a pariah; took to sulking in corners and reading after lights. With a dread of being alone he attached a few friends, but since they were not among the elite of the school, he used them simply as mirrors of himself, audiences before which he might do that posing absolutely essential to him. He was unbearably lonely, desperately unhappy.
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