The depths of the sea are only water after all.
Thoughts without words… Can that be?
It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality.
For now she need not think of anybody. She coud be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of - to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others... and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures.
We must reconcile ourselves to a season of failures and fragments.
Thinking is my fighting.
Really I don't like human nature unless all candied over with art.
For nothing was simply one thing.
All extremes are dangerous.
All extremes of feeling are allied to madness.
It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.
I will dream today; for I must unscrew my head somehow.
A perfect treat must include a trip to a second-hand bookshop.
I am reading six books at once, the only way of reading; since, as you will agree, one book is only a single unaccompanied note, and to get the full sound, one needs ten others at the same time.
One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with one's words.
And yet, the only exciting life is the imaginary one.
Once conform, once do what other people do because they do it, and a lethargy steals over all the finer nerves and faculties of the soul. She becomes all outer show and inward emptiness; dull, callous, and indifferent.
I like people to be unhappy because I like them to have souls.
No passion is stronger in the breast of a man than the desire to make others believe as he believes. Nothing so cuts at the root of his happiness and fills him with rage as the sense that another rates low what he prizes high.
How can I express the darkness?
Yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.
Arrange whatever pieces come your way.
Long ago I realized that no other person would be to me what you are.
I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.
My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?
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