I don't think anything might have been. What is, is.
Ideally, if anything [was] any good, it would be indescribable.
Such excess of passion is quite out of fashion
I tend to be rather inconsequential and trail off.
If you're doing nonsense it has to be rather awful, because there'd be no point. I'm trying to think if there's sunny nonsense. Sunny, funny nonsense for children — oh, how boring, boring, boring. As Schubert said, there is no happy music. And that's true, there really isn't. And there's probably no happy nonsense, either.
Explaining something makes it go away, so to speak; what's important is left after you have explained everything else.
I've never had any intentions about anything. That's why I am where I am today, which is neither here nor there, in a literal sense.
I feel that I am doing the minimum amount of damage to other possibilities that may take place in a reader's head.
I realize that homosexuality is a serious problem for anyone who is - but then, of course, heterosexuality is a serious problem for anyone who is, too. And being a man is a serious problem and being a woman is, too. Lots of things are problems.
The world may think it idiotic, Nor care at all we're symbiotic, But I will say at once and twice: I find it nice. I find it nice.
I thought I'd be a librarian until I met some crazy ones.
...my least favorite actress of all time, Helena Bonham Carter. I find her lack of a neck very off-putting and especially her acting.
Not everything in life can be interpreted metaphorically; that's because things fall out on the way.
Mr Earbrass stands on the terrace at twilight. It is bleak; it is cold; and the virtue has gone out of everything. Words drift through his mind: anguish turnips conjunctions illness defeat string parties no parties urns desuetude disaffection claws loss Trebizond napkins shame stones distance fever Antipodes mush glaciers incoherence labels miasma amputation tides deceit mourning elsewards.
If I do not seem to be mentioning anything I’ve read lately, it is because I am in one of those periods of undifferentiated flux or something in which I am reading about fifty, at a minimum, books at once, so of course I seldom finish one. Eventually this phase will pass, and I’ll discover I have about ten pages to go in all of them, and will sit down and systematically finish them, one after another.
There was a young lady named Mae Who smoked without stopping all day; As pack followed pack, Her lungs first turned black, And eventually rotted away.
Having got into bed and turned out the light, I quietly burst into tears because I am not a good person. As they came and went for some minutes, I was concerned with the words following 'because' in the previous sentence, rewriting them over and over in my head until they seemed to be as close to the truth as it was possible for me to make them.
All the things you can talk about in anyone's work are the things that are least important.
I don't know what it is I'm doing. But it's not that. Despite all evidence to the contrary.
I really think I write about everyday life. I don't think I'm quite as odd as others say I am.
If you're doing nonsense it has to be rather awful, because there'd be no point.
Z is for Zillah who drank too much gin.
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