Snow had fallen steadily all night and now the sun was struggling out of a gauze of mist and the lake was black ink against a white land. Sally pressed her little face to the cold window pane in an ecstasy of delight and the tonic air made me want to do everything at once. From the back of the cottage came the smell of frying bacon and Jerome's voice singing as he cooked it. Happiness is one of the hardest things to write about, and the difficulty of doing so makes me long to be a musician or a painter, for painters and musicians are at ease with the supreme emotion, which is not grief but joy abounding. To be able to make a joyful noise unto the Lord or a praise of colors and forms would seem to me to equate any man with gods or little children.
Happiness annihilates time.