Arrange whatever pieces come your way.
Peace was the third emotion. Love. Hate. Peace. Three emotions made the ply of human life.
All extremes are dangerous.
It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality.
... it's been a perpetual discovery, my life. A miracle.
And yet, the only exciting life is the imaginary one.
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.
I do not want to be admired. I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions.
If we help an educated man's daughter to go to Cambridge are we not forcing her to think not about education but about war? - not how she can learn, but how she can fight in order that she might win the same advantages as her brothers?
A veil of insanity everywhere: Oh why I was born in this age? It is a terrible age.
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.
Language is wine upon the lips.
My mind works in idleness. To do nothing is often my most profitable way.
The older one grows, the more one likes indecency.
A whole lifetime was too short to bring out, the full flavour; to extract every ounce of pleasure, every shade of meaning.
I'm sick to death of this particular self. I want another.
I have lost friends, some by death...others by sheer inability to cross the street.
When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet. . . indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
We can best help you to prevent war not by repeating your words and following your methods but by finding new words and creating new methods.
How can I express the darkness?
I want to write a novel about Silence," he said; “the things people don’t say.
Love, the poet said, is woman's whole existence.
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.
What does the brain matter compared with the heart?
It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.
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