Of course she had some pathetic illusions about herself or she would not be able to go on living.
The last time you were happy about nothing; the first time you were afraid about nothing. Which came first?
Today I must be very careful, today I have left my armor at home.
After all this, what happened? What happened was that, as soon as I had the slightest chance of a place to hide in, I crept into it and hid. Well, sometimes it's a fine day isn't it? Sometimes the skies are blue. Sometimes the air is light, easy to breathe. And there is always tomorrow.
There is no doubt that running away on a fresh, blue morning can be exhilarating.
I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know.
I think that the desire to be cruel and to hurt (with words because any other way might be dangerous to ourself) is part of human nature. Parties are battles (most parties), a conversation is a duel (often). Everybody's trying to hurt first, to get in the dig that will make him or her feel superior, feel triumph.
All of a writer that matters is in the book or books. It is idiotic to be curious about the person.
The perpetual hunger to be beautiful and that thirst to be loved which is the real curse of Eve.
I've been so ridiculous all my life that a little bit more or a little bit less hardly matters now.
I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness.
...I know all about myself now, I know. You've told me so often. You haven't left me one rag of illusion to clothe myself in.
I long to be ... Like Other People! The extraordinary, ungetatable, oddly cruel Other People, with their way of wantonly hurting and then accusing you of being thin-skinned, sulky, vindictive or ridiculous.
Everything tender and melancholy - as life is sometimes, just for one moment.
I have arranged my little life.
One realized all sorts of things. The value of an illusion, for instance, and that the shadow can be more important than the substance. All sorts of things.
You imagine the carefully pruned, shaped thing that is presented to you is truth. That is just what it isn't. The truth is improbable, the truth is fantastic; it's in what you think is a distorting mirror that you see the truth.
I hated the mountains and the hills, the rivers and the rain. I hated the sunsets of whatever colour, I hated its beauty and its magic and the secret I would never know. I hated its indifference and the cruelty which was part of its loveliness. Above all I hated her. For she belonged to the magic and the loveliness. She had left me thirsty and all my life would be thirst and longing for what I had lost before I found it.
I am empty of everything. I am empty of everything but the thin, frail ghosts in my room.
Life if curious when reduced to its essentials
For the first time she had dimly realized that only the hopeless are starkly sincere and that only the unhappy can either give or take sympathy--even some of the bitter and dangerous voluptuousness of misery.
I sit at my window and the words fly past me like birds — with God's help I catch some.
Every word I say has chains round its ankles; every thought I think is weighted with heavy weights.
I must write. If I stop writing my life will have been an abject failure. It is that already to other people. But it could be an abject failure to myself. I will not have earned death.
No past to make us sentimental, no future to embarrass us...a difficult moment when you are out of practice - a moment that makes you go cold, cold and wary.
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