The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.
Why are women... so much more interesting to men than men are to women?
Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.
We live in constant danger of coming apart. The mystery of why we do not always come apart is the animating tension of all art.
Mrs Dalloway is always giving parties to cover the silence
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?
Why, if it was an illusion, not praise the catastrophe, whatever it was, that destroyed illusion and put truth in it's place?
We can best help you to prevent war not by repeating your words and following your methods but by finding new words and creating new methods.
...she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.
Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day.
When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet. . . indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
I am tied down with single words. But you wander off; you slip away; you rise up higher, with words and words in phrases.
Words belong to each other.
... it's been a perpetual discovery, my life. A miracle.
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.
To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.
Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.
For there is a virtue in truth; it has an almost mystic power. Like radium, it seems to give off forever and ever grains of energy, atoms of light.
I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.
My mind works in idleness. To do nothing is often my most profitable way.
Still, life had a way of adding day to day
With twice his wits, she had to see things through his eyes -- one of the tragedies of married life.
When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?
I like going from one lighted room to another, such is my brain to me; lighted rooms.
A whole lifetime was too short to bring out, the full flavour; to extract every ounce of pleasure, every shade of meaning.
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