From this I reach what I might call a philosophy; at any rate it is a constant idea of mine; that behind the cotton wool is hidden a pattern; that we—I mean all human beings—are connected with this; that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of the work of art.

A great part of every day is not lived consciously. One walks, eats, sees things, deals with what has to be done; the broken vacuum cleaner; ordering dinner; writing orders to Mabel; washing; cooking dinner; bookbinding.

These are the moments of being. They are always a shock; they are always accompanied by a peculiar horror and a physical collapse; they seem dominant; myself passive.

It is only by putting it into words that I make it whole; this wholeness means that it has lost its power to hurt me.