I see nothing. We may sink and settle on the waves. The sea will drum in my ears. The white petals will be darkened with sea water. They will float for a moment and then sink. Rolling over the waves will shoulder me under. Everything falls in a tremendous shower, dissolving me.
But when we sit together, close,’ said Bernard, ‘we melt into each other with phrases. We are edged with mist. We make an unsubstantial territory.
I am not so gifted as at one time seemed likely.
Odd how the creative power at once brings the whole universe to order.
Her life-that was the only chance she had-the short season between two silences.
Often on a wet day I begin counting up; what I've read; what I haven't read.
The art of writing has for backbone some fierce attachment to an idea.
The history of men's opposition to women's emancipation is more interesting perhaps than the story of that emancipation itself.
Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.
A very elementary exercise in psychology, not to be dignified by the name of psycho-analysis, showed me, on looking at my notebook, that the sketch of the angry professor had been made in anger. Anger had snatched my pencil while I dreamt. But what was anger doing there? Interest, confusion, amusement, boredom--all these emotions I could trace and name as they succeeded each other throughout the morning. Had anger, the black snake, been lurking among them? Yes, said the sketch, anger had.
For love... has two faces; one white, the other black; two bodies; one smooth, the other hairy. It has two hands, two feet, two tails, two, indeed, of every member and each one is the exact opposite of the other. Yet, so strictly are they joined together
Why have I so little control? It is the case of much waste and pain in my life.
All women together ought to let flowers fall upon the tomb of Aphra Behn, for it was she who earned them the right to speak their minds.
Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.
Marvelous are the innocent.
We shall be the mouthpieces of the divine spirit—
But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.
As I grow old I hate the writing of letters more and more, and like getting them better and better.
Now the writer, I think, has the chance to live more than other people in the presence of ... reality. It is his business to find it and collect it and communicate it to the rest of us.
How far do our feelings take their colour from the dive underground? I mean, what is the reality of any feeling?
But it is just when opinions universally prevail and we have added lip service to their authority that we become sometimes most keenly conscious that we do not believe a word that we are saying.
Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.
The proper stuff of fiction' does not exist; everything is the proper stuff of fiction, every feeling, every thought; every quality of brain and spirit is drawn upon; no perception comes amiss.
It is only by putting it into words that I make it whole. This wholeness means that it has lost its power to hurt me; it gives me, perhaps because by doing so I take away the pain, a great delight to put the severed parts together
Life would split apart without letters.
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