But when we sit together, close,’ said Bernard, ‘we melt into each other with phrases. We are edged with mist. We make an unsubstantial territory.
One of the signs of passing youth is the birth of a sense of fellowship with other human beings as we take our place among them.
Her life-that was the only chance she had-the short season between two silences.
I am not so gifted as at one time seemed likely.
The history of men's opposition to women's emancipation is more interesting perhaps than the story of that emancipation itself.
Odd how the creative power at once brings the whole universe to order.
But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.
Often on a wet day I begin counting up; what I've read; what I haven't read.
A very elementary exercise in psychology, not to be dignified by the name of psycho-analysis, showed me, on looking at my notebook, that the sketch of the angry professor had been made in anger. Anger had snatched my pencil while I dreamt. But what was anger doing there? Interest, confusion, amusement, boredom--all these emotions I could trace and name as they succeeded each other throughout the morning. Had anger, the black snake, been lurking among them? Yes, said the sketch, anger had.
Why have I so little control? It is the case of much waste and pain in my life.
Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.
On or about December 1910, human character changed.
We shall be the mouthpieces of the divine spirit—
There was a serenity about him always that had the look of innocence, when, technically, the word was no longer applicable.
All great writers have, of course, an atmosphere in which they seem most at their ease and at their best; a mood of the general mind which they interpret and indeed almost discover, so that we come to read them rather for that than for any story or character or scene of seperate excellence.
Now the writer, I think, has the chance to live more than other people in the presence of ... reality. It is his business to find it and collect it and communicate it to the rest of us.
How far do our feelings take their colour from the dive underground? I mean, what is the reality of any feeling?
And when we are writing the life of a woman, we may, it is agreed, waive our demand for action, and substitute love instead. Love, the poet has said, is a woman's whole existence.
It is only by putting it into words that I make it whole. This wholeness means that it has lost its power to hurt me; it gives me, perhaps because by doing so I take away the pain, a great delight to put the severed parts together
To put it in a nutshell, he was afflicted with a love of literature. It was the fatal nature of this disease to substitute a phantom for reality.
The proper stuff of fiction' does not exist; everything is the proper stuff of fiction, every feeling, every thought; every quality of brain and spirit is drawn upon; no perception comes amiss.
But it is just when opinions universally prevail and we have added lip service to their authority that we become sometimes most keenly conscious that we do not believe a word that we are saying.
Writing is a divine art, and the more I write and read the more I love it.
For what Harley Street specialist has time to understand the body, let alone the mind or both in combination, when he is a slave to thirteen thousand a year?
Of the rest some we know to be dead though they walk among us; some are not yet born though they go through the forms of life; others are hundreds of years old though they call themselves thirty-six.
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