I like people to be unhappy because I like them to have souls.
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?
The way to write well is to live intensely.
Fatigue is the safest sleeping draught.
I prefer men to cauliflowers
Thinking is my fighting.
I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot.
Intellectual freedom depends upon material things.
It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.
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.
We do not know our own souls, let alone the souls of others. Human beings do not go hand in hand the whole stretch of the way. There is a virgin forest in each; a snowfield where even the print of birds' feet is unknown. Here we go alone, and like it better so. Always to have sympathy, always to be accompanied, always to be understood would be intolerable.
And again she felt alone in the presence of her old antagonist, life.
For pleasure has no relish unless we share it.
Without self awareness we are as babies in the cradles.
Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.
to teach without zest is a crime.
Sleep, that deplorable curtailment of the joy of life.
I will dream today; for I must unscrew my head somehow.
Life without illusion is a ghostly affair.
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.
The compensation of growing old ... was simply this; that the passion remains as strong as ever, but one has gained -- at last! -- the power which adds the supreme flavour to existence -- the power of taking hold of experience, of turning it round, slowly, in the light.
Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day.
We must reconcile ourselves to a season of failures and fragments.
Yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.
I will go down with my colours flying.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: