But beauty must be broken daily to remain beautiful.
Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more.
Never pretend that the things you haven't got are not worth having.
I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot.
Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us.
Above all you must illumine your own soul with its profundities and its shallows, and its vanities and its generosities, and say what your beauty means to you or your plainness, and what is your relation to the ever-changing and turning world.
I really don't advise a woman who wants to have things her own way to get married
And all the lives we ever lived and all the lives to be are full of trees and changing leaves.
We are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.
To make ideas effective, we must be able to fire them off. We must put them into action.
Second hand books are wild books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the library lack.
Distorted realities have always been my cup of tea.
My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.
I'm terrified of passive acquiescence. I live in intensity.
Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.
I like to have space to spread my mind out in.
Without self awareness we are as babies in the cradles.
Words belong to each other.
Soup is cuisines kindest course
I am overwhelmed with things I ought to have written about and never found the proper words.
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.
If people are highly successful in their professions they lose their sense. Sight goes. They have no time to look at pictures. Sound goes. They have no time to listen to music. Speech goes. They have no time for conversation. Humanity goes. Money making becomes so important that they must work by night as well as by day. Health goes. And so competitive do they become that they will not share their work with others though they have more themselves. What then remains of a human being who has lost sight, sound, and sense of proportion? Only a cripple in a cave.
She had known happiness, exquisite happiness, intense happiness, and it silvered the rough waves a little more brightly, as daylight faded, and the blue went out of the sea and it rolled in waves of pure lemon which curved and swelled and broke upon the beach and the ecstasy burst in her eyes and waves of pure delight raced over the floor of her mind and she felt, It is enough! It is enough!
One can only believe entirely, perhaps, in what one cannot see.
The depths of the sea are only water after all.
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