Intimacy is a difficult art.
In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.
Love had a thousand shapes.
Fear no more, says the heart.
To enjoy freedom we have to control ourselves.
I feel all shadows of the universe multiplied deep inside my skin.
How lovely goodness is in those who, stepping lightly, go smiling through the world.
Books are the mirrors of the soul.
The only advice ... that one person can give another about reading is to take no advice, to follow your own instincts, to use your own reason, to come to your own conclusions.
How much better is silence; the coffee cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself.
I will not be "famous," "great." I will go on adventuring, changing, opening my mind and my eyes, refusing to be stamped and stereotyped. The thing is to free one's self: to let it find its dimensions, not be impeded.
I am in the mood to dissolve in the sky.
It is fatal to be a man or woman pure and simple: one must be a woman manly, or a man womanly.
I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.
There must be another life, she thought, sinking back into her chair, exasperated. Not in dreams; but here and now, in this room, with living people. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice with her hair blown back; she was about to grasp something that just evaded her. There must be another life, here and now, she repeated. This is too short, too broken. We know nothing, even about ourselves.
I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot.
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.
There is the strange power we have of changing facts by the force of the imagination.
Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us.
As a woman I have no country. As a woman my country is the whole world.
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.
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.
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