The extraordinary woman depends on the ordinary woman.
Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it.
Soup is cuisines kindest course
As a woman, I have no country
While fame impedes and constricts, obscurity wraps about a man like a mist; obscurity is dark, ample, and free; obscurity lets the mind take its way unimpeded. Over the obscure man is poured the merciful suffusion of darkness. None knows where he goes or comes. He may seek the truth and speak it; he alone is free; he alone is truthful, he alone is at peace.
And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.
No sooner have you feasted on beauty with your eyes than your mind tells you that beauty is vain and beauty passes
I like the unreality of your mind; the whole thing is very splendid and voluptuous and absurd.
Humor is the first of the gifts to perish in a foreign tongue.
Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.
Habits and customs are a convenience devised for the support of timid natures who dare not allow their souls free play.
Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.
Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.
The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.
By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. 'Tis the waking that kills us. He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.
The artist after all is a solitary being.
I like going from one lighted room to another, such is my brain to me; lighted rooms.
How remorseless life is!
We live in constant danger of coming apart. The mystery of why we do not always come apart is the animating tension of all art.
One can only believe entirely, perhaps, in what one cannot see.
literature is the record of our discontent.
Money dignifies what is frivolous if unpaid for.
I have sought happiness through many ages and not found it.
It is from the middle class that writers spring, because, it is in the middle class only that the practice of writing is as natural and habitual as hoeing a field or building a house.
Tragedies come in the hungry hours.
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