One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and, if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.

A mere trifle consoles us, for a mere trifle distresses us.

One can get just as much exultation in losing oneself in a little thing as in a big thing. It is nice to think how one can be recklessly lost in a daisy.

Sun lighting a child's hair. A friend's embrace. Slow dancing in a safe and quiet place. The pleasures of an ordinary life.

A glass of wine, a roast chestnut, a wretched little brazier, the sound of the sea ... All that is required to feel that here and now is a simple, frugal heart.

I have a friend who has developed a special ritual for getting up in the morning. She wakes up a few minutes before daybreak and makes herself a special cup of tea ... She knew that even if the rest of the day turns hectic, she'll have one memory of something beginning exactly the way she likes it.

A book of verses underneath the bough, A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou ...

A bed, a nice fresh bed with smoothly drawn sheets and a hot water bottle at the end of it, soft to the feet like a live animal's tummy.