A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.
It was the intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.
I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.
Like all very handsome men who die tragically, he left not so much a character behind him as a legend. Youth and death shed a halo through which it is difficult to see a real face.
Style is a very simple matter; it is all rhythm. Once you get that, you can't use the wrong words. But on the other hand here am I sitting after half the morning, crammed with ideas, and visions, and so on, and can't dislodge them, for lack of the right rhythm. Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than any words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it.
Dance music ... stirs some barbaric instinct - lulled asleep in our sober lives - you forget centuries of civilization in a second, & yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.
This is an important book, the critic assumes, because it deals with war. This is an insignificant book because it deals with the feelings of women in a drawing-room.
Inevitably we look upon society, so kind to you, so harsh to us, as an ill-fitting form that distorts the truth; deforms the mind; fetters the will.
With twice his wits, she had to see things through his eyes -- one of the tragedies of married life.
Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.
Life piles up so fast that I have no time to write out the equally fast rising mound of reflections.
Illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth.
To read a novel is a difficult and complex art. You must be capable not only of great fineness of perception, but of great boldness of imagination.
If we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women.
I am tied down with single words. But you wander off; you slip away; you rise up higher, with words and words in phrases.
Beauty was not everything. Beauty had this penalty — it came too readily, came too completely. It stilled life — froze it.
Why, if it was an illusion, not praise the catastrophe, whatever it was, that destroyed illusion and put truth in it's place?
Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.
If the best of one's feelings means nothing to the person most concerned in those feelings, what reality is left us?
On the outskirts of every agony sits some observant fellow who points.
Few people ask from books what books can give us. Most commonly we come to books with blurred and divided minds, asking of fiction that it shall be true, of poetry that it shall be false, of biography that it shall be flattering, of history that it shall enforce our own prejudices. If we could banish all such preconceptions when we read, that would be an admirable beginning.
...she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.
Vain trifles as they seem, clothes have, they say, more important offices than to merely keep us warm. They change our view of the world and the world's view of us.
I need silence, and to be alone and to go out, and to save one hour to consider what has happened to my world, what death has done to my world.
Well, we must wait for the future to show.
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