Our apparitions, the things you know us by, are simply childish. Beneath it is all dark, it is all spreading, it is unfathomably deep; but now and again we rise to the surface and that is what you see us by.
There'll be oceans of talk and emotions without end.
I am volatile for one, rigid for another, angular as an icicle in silver, or voluptuous as a candle flame in gold.
war is a man's game ... the killing machine has a gender and it is male.
I want some one to sit beside after the day's pursuit and all its anguish, after its listening, its waitings, and its suspicions. After quarreling and reconciliation I need privacy--to be alone with you, to set this hubbub in order. For I am as neat as a cat in my habits.
Women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time.
Why does Samuel Butler say, 'Wise men never say what they think of women'? Wise men never say anything else apparently.
War is not women's history.
I detest the masculine point of view. I am bored by his heroism, virtue, and honour. I think the best these men can do is not talk about themselves anymore.
No, I'm not clever. I've always cared more for people than for ideas.
We read Charlotte Bronte not for exquisite observation of character - her characters are vigorous and elementary; not for comedy - hers is grim and crude; not for a philosophic view of life - hers is that of a country parson's daughter; but for her poetry. Probably that is so with all writers who have, as she has, an overpowering personality, so that, as we say in real life, they have only to open the door to make themselves felt.
I mean it's the writing, not the being read, that excites me.
Truth had run through my fingers. Every drop had escaped.
The mind is the most capricious of insects — flitting, fluttering.
Come indoors then, and open the books on your library shelves. For you have a library and a good one. A working library, a living library; a library where nothing is chained down and nothing is locked up; a library where the songs of the singers rise naturally from the lives of the livers.
So coming back from a journey, or after an illness, before habits had spun themselves across the surface, one felt that same unreality, which was so startling; felt something emerge. Life was most vivid then.
They came to her, naturally, since she was a woman, all day long with this and that; one wanting this, another that; the children were growing up; she often felt she was nothing but a sponge sopped full of human emotions.
If only she could put them together, she felt, write them out in some sentence, then she would have got at the truth of things.
I have sometimes dreamt ... that when the Day of Judgment dawns and the great conquerors and lawyers and statesmen come to receive their rewards -- their crowns, their laurels, their names carved indelibly upon imperishable marble -- the Almighty will turn to Peter and will say, not without a certain envy when He sees us coming with our books under our arms, "Look, these need no reward. We have nothing to give them here. They have loved reading.
When I cannot see words curling like rings of smoke round me I am in darkness—I am nothing.
On the outskirts of every agony sits some observant fellow who points.
Sometimes I think heaven must be one continuous unexhausted reading.
Consolation for those moments when you can't tell whether you're the divinest genius or the greatest fool in the world.
Am I too fast, too facile? I do not know. I do not know myself sometimes, or how to measure and name and count out the grains that make me what I am.
I feel my brains, like a pear, to see if it's ripe; it will be exquisite by September.
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