I liked this collection. Each story is written in a reserved sort of way; controlled and carefully. The repetition of adjectives was cool too. Also the descriptions of nature in relation to human emotions. His inflamed self-consciousness was a disease in himHe was exactly the worst foe of the hypersensitive: insolence without sensibility, preying on sensibility.In the dense blackness he felt himself almost extinguished. He was afraid he might not find things the same. How ghastly! How insufferable! One of them would surely have to die. Celia felt all her pent-up rage going down that rain-pipe. At the same time, she almost laughed. It was awful. The only roof I am conscious of having, myself, is the top of my head. However, he hardly can have meant that no woman should sleep under the elegant dome of his skull. Though there's no telling. You see the top of a sleek head through a window, and you say: 'By Jove, what a pretty girl's head!" And after all, when the individual comes out, it's in trousers. clove-pink-half-opened sort of children. Thus it seems that even islands like to keep each other company. But anyone who wants the world to be perfect must be careful not to have real likes or dislikes. A general goodwill is all you can afford. His soul at last was still in him, his spirit was like a dim-lit cave under water, where strange sea-foliage expands upon the watery atmosphere, and scarcely sways, and a mute fish shadowily slips in and slips away again. All still and soft and uncrying, yet alive as rooted seaweed is alive. Whereas stone buildings, cathedrals for example, seemed to him to howl with temporary resistance, knowing they must fall at last; the tension of their long endurance seemed to howl forth from them all the time. Man is tormented with words like midges, and they follow him right into the tomb. But beyond the tomb they cannot go. Unless we encompass it in the greater day, and set the little life in the circle of the greater life, all is disaster.