He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.
Criticism? An artist wants praise. Praise.
You send a boy to school in order to make friends - the right sort.
Mrs Dalloway is always giving parties to cover the silence
One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with one's words.
When the Day of Judgment dawns and people, great and small, come marching in to receive their heavenly rewards, the Almighty will gaze upon the mere bookworms and say to Peter, “Look, these need no reward. We have nothing to give them. They have loved reading.
Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all be pure
Really I don't like human nature unless all candied over with art.
These moments of escape are not to be despised. They come too seldom.
Words belong to each other.
For it would seem - her case proved it - that we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver.
As I grow old I hate the writing of letters more and more, and like getting them better and better.
Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.
For this moment, this one moment, we are together. I press you to me. Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob.
When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?
Once you begin to take yourself seriously as a leader or as a follower, as a modern or as a conservative, then you become a self-conscious, biting, and scratching little animal whose work is not of the slightest value or importance to anybody.
The truer the facts the better the fiction.
The mind which is most capable of receiving impressions is very often the least capable of drawing conclusions.
Why is life so tragic; so like a little strip of pavement over an abyss. I look down; I feel giddy; I wonder how I am ever to walk to the end.
I ransack public libraries & find them full of sunk treasure.
Why are women... so much more interesting to men than men are to women?
Our friends - how distant, how mute, how seldom visited and little known. And I, too, am dim to my friends and unknown; a phantom, sometimes seen, often not. Life is a dream surely.
The mind must be allowed to settle undisturbed over the object in order to secrete the pearl.
To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.
Night had come—night that she loved of all times, night in which the reflections in the dark pool of the mind shine more clearly than by day.
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