When the Day of Judgment dawns and people, great and small, come marching in to receive their heavenly rewards, the Almighty will gaze upon the mere bookworms and say to Peter, “Look, these need no reward. We have nothing to give them. They have loved reading.
It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.
How can I express the darkness?
These moments of escape are not to be despised. They come too seldom.
Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it.
The mind which is most capable of receiving impressions is very often the least capable of drawing conclusions.
Habits and customs are a convenience devised for the support of timid natures who dare not allow their souls free play.
But how entirely I live in my imagination; how completely depend upon spurts of thought, coming as I walk, as I sit; things churning up in my mind and so making a perpetual pageant, which is to be my happiness.
Once you begin to take yourself seriously as a leader or as a follower, as a modern or as a conservative, then you become a self-conscious, biting, and scratching little animal whose work is not of the slightest value or importance to anybody.
As a woman, I have no country
Night had come—night that she loved of all times, night in which the reflections in the dark pool of the mind shine more clearly than by day.
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.
And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.
I like the unreality of your mind; the whole thing is very splendid and voluptuous and absurd.
The truer the facts the better the fiction.
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.
I want to write a novel about Silence," he said; “the things people don’t say.
The extraordinary woman depends on the ordinary woman.
The mind must be allowed to settle undisturbed over the object in order to secrete the pearl.
The artist after all is a solitary being.
While fame impedes and constricts, obscurity wraps about a man like a mist; obscurity is dark, ample, and free; obscurity lets the mind take its way unimpeded. Over the obscure man is poured the merciful suffusion of darkness. None knows where he goes or comes. He may seek the truth and speak it; he alone is free; he alone is truthful, he alone is at peace.
By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. 'Tis the waking that kills us. He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.
Life without illusion is a ghostly affair.
I ransack public libraries & find them full of sunk treasure.
Humor is the first of the gifts to perish in a foreign tongue.
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