I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.
She dares me to pour myself out like a living waterfall. She dares me to enter the soul that is more than my own; she extinguishes fear in mere seconds. She lets light come through.
Why, if it was an illusion, not praise the catastrophe, whatever it was, that destroyed illusion and put truth in it's place?
I am tied down with single words. But you wander off; you slip away; you rise up higher, with words and words in phrases.
My mind works in idleness. To do nothing is often my most profitable way.
...she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.
Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.
A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.
When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?
As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.
But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? The entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self that took the veil and left the world -- a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.
Like all very handsome men who die tragically, he left not so much a character behind him as a legend. Youth and death shed a halo through which it is difficult to see a real face.
What does the brain matter compared with the heart?
I'm sick to death of this particular self. I want another.
Style is a very simple matter; it is all rhythm. Once you get that, you can't use the wrong words. But on the other hand here am I sitting after half the morning, crammed with ideas, and visions, and so on, and can't dislodge them, for lack of the right rhythm. Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than any words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it.
This is an important book, the critic assumes, because it deals with war. This is an insignificant book because it deals with the feelings of women in a drawing-room.
With twice his wits, she had to see things through his eyes -- one of the tragedies of married life.
But words have been used too often; touched and turned, and left exposed to the dust of the street. The words we seek hang close to the tree. We come at dawn and find them sweet beneath the leaf.
Inevitably we look upon society, so kind to you, so harsh to us, as an ill-fitting form that distorts the truth; deforms the mind; fetters the will.
Dance music ... stirs some barbaric instinct - lulled asleep in our sober lives - you forget centuries of civilization in a second, & yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.
If we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women.
If the best of one's feelings means nothing to the person most concerned in those feelings, what reality is left us?
Still, life had a way of adding day to day
Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.
Illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth.
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