The extraordinary woman depends on the ordinary woman.
I like people to be unhappy because I like them to have souls.
My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?
Why is life so tragic; so like a little strip of pavement over an abyss. I look down; I feel giddy; I wonder how I am ever to walk to the end.
It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.
Thinking is my fighting.
Once you begin to take yourself seriously as a leader or as a follower, as a modern or as a conservative, then you become a self-conscious, biting, and scratching little animal whose work is not of the slightest value or importance to anybody.
If we help an educated man's daughter to go to Cambridge are we not forcing her to think not about education but about war? - not how she can learn, but how she can fight in order that she might win the same advantages as her brothers?
I ransack public libraries & find them full of sunk treasure.
Yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.
All extremes of feeling are allied to madness.
I do not want to be admired. I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions.
For pleasure has no relish unless we share it.
Once conform, once do what other people do because they do it, and a lethargy steals over all the finer nerves and faculties of the soul. She becomes all outer show and inward emptiness; dull, callous, and indifferent.
We must reconcile ourselves to a season of failures and fragments.
I will dream today; for I must unscrew my head somehow.
She dares me to pour myself out like a living waterfall. She dares me to enter the soul that is more than my own; she extinguishes fear in mere seconds. She lets light come through.
All extremes are dangerous.
Once she knows how to read there's only one thing you can teach her to believe in and that is herself.
Language is wine upon the lips.
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.
... it's been a perpetual discovery, my life. A miracle.
Thoughts without words… Can that be?
If the best of one's feelings means nothing to the person most concerned in those feelings, what reality is left us?
The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.
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