The Middle of the Note.

Whenever I have a conversation about Art which is more or less interesting I begin to wish to God I could destroy all that I have written and start again: it all seems like so many ‘false starts’. Musically speaking, it is not—has not page 95 been—In the middle of the note—you know what I mean? When, on a cold morning perhaps, you've been playing and it has sounded all right—until suddenly, you realize you are warm—you have only just begun to play. Oh, how badly this is expressed! How confused and even ungrammatical!

Now the day was divine—warm, soft sunshine lay upon her arms and breast like velvet—tiny clouds, silver ones, shone upon the dazzling blue—the garden trees were full of gold light—and a strange brightness came from the houses—from the open windows with their fairy curtains and flower pots … the white steps and the narrow spiked railings.