What does the brain matter compared with the heart?
Thinking is my fighting.
I like the unreality of your mind; the whole thing is very splendid and voluptuous and absurd.
For nothing was simply one thing.
He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.
Life without illusion is a ghostly affair.
But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? The entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self that took the veil and left the world -- a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.
The truer the facts the better the fiction.
A veil of insanity everywhere: Oh why I was born in this age? It is a terrible age.
I have lost friends, some by death...others by sheer inability to cross the street.
As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.
The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.
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.
I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.
The beauty of the world, which is so soon to perish, has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.
I prefer men to cauliflowers
It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.
I like people to be unhappy because I like them to have souls.
I do not want to be admired. I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions.
The extraordinary woman depends on the ordinary woman.
Fatigue is the safest sleeping draught.
All extremes of feeling are allied to madness.
...so now, Mrs. Ramsay thought, she could return to that dream land, that unreal but fascinating place, the Manning's drawing-room at Marlow twenty years ago; where one moved about without haste or anxiety, for there was no future to worry about. She knew what had happened to them, what to her. It was like reading a good book again, for she knew the end of that story, since it had happened twenty years ago, and life, which shot down even from this dining-room table in cascades, heaven knows where, was sealed up there, and lay, like a lake, placidly between its banks.
I ransack public libraries & find them full of sunk treasure.
I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot.
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