We are all ghosts of yesterday, and the phantom of tomorrow awaits us alike in sunshine or in shadow, dimly perceived at times, never entirely lost.
But luxury has never appealed to me, I like simple things, books, being alone, or with somebody who understands.
Happiness is not a possession to be prized, it is a quality of thought, a state of mind.
A dreamer, I walked enchanted, and nothing held me back.
Look on each day that comes as a challenge, as a test of courage. The pain will come in waves, some days worse than others, for no apparent reason. Accept the pain. Little by little, you will find new strength, new vision, born of the very pain and loneliness which seem, at first, impossible to master.
If only there could be an invention that bottled up a memory, like scent. And it never faded, and it never got stale. And then, when one wanted it, the bottle could be uncorked, and it would be like living the moment all over again.
When one is writing a novel in the first person, one must be that person.
How simple life becomes when things like mirrors are forgotten.
Women want love to be a novel, men a short story.
Happiness happens when you fit with your life, when you fit so harmoniously that whatsoever you are doing is your joy. Happiness is not a possession to be prized, it is a quality of thought, a state of mind.
There is no going back in life. There is no return. No second chance.
I suppose sooner or later in the life of everyone comes a moment of trial. We all of us have our particular devil who rides us and torments us, and we must give battle in the end.
Life was a series of greetings and farewells, one was always saying good-bye to something, to someone.
Living as we do in an age of noise and bluster, success is now measured accordingly. We must all be seen, and heard, and on the air.
People who travel are always fugitives.
A bad workman blames his tools.
I wondered why it was that places are so much lovelier when one is alone.
no person will ever get into my blood as a place can ... People and things pass away, but not places.
Writing every book is like a purge; at the end of it one is empty ... like a dry shell on the beach, waiting for the tide to come in again.
Boredom is a pleasing antidote for fear
I wish I was a woman of about thirty-six dressed in black satin with a string of pearls.
I wondered how many people there were in the world who suffered, and continued to suffer, because they could not break out from their own web of shyness and reserve, and in their blindness and folly built up a great distorted wall in front of them that hid the truth.
I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden, too, whatever the poets may say.
Every moment was a precious thing, having in it the essence of finality.
Once a person gave his talent to the world, the world put a stamp upon it. The talent was not a personal possession any more. It was something to be traded, bought and sold. It fetched a high price, or a low one. It was kicked in the common market.
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