Only the margin left to write on now. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Why is summer mist romantic and autumn mist just sad?
Death is too much to ask of the living.
People's clothes ought to be buried with them.
He stood staring into the wood for a minute, then said: "What is it about the English countryside — why is the beauty so much more than visual? Why does it touch one so?" He sounded faintly sad. Perhaps he finds beauty saddening — I do myself sometimes. Once when I was quite little I asked father why this was and he explained that it was due to our knowledge of beauty's evanescence, which reminds us that we ourselves shall die. Then he said I was probably too young to understand him; but I understood perfectly.
And who says you always have to understand things? You can like them without understanding them -- like 'em better sometimes.
I like seeing people when they can't see me.
I have noticed that rooms which are extra clean feel extra cold
When things mean a very great deal to you, exciting anticipation just isn't safe.
It's odd how different a house feels when one is alone in it. It makes it easier to think rather private thoughts.
Certain unique books seem to be without forerunners or successors as far as their authors are concerned. Even though they may profoundly influence the work of other writers, for their creator they're complete, not leading anywhere.
I am a restlessness inside a stillness inside a restlessness.
Everything in the least connected with him has value for me; if someone even mentions his name it is like a little present to me-and I long to mention it myself
It is rather exciting to write by moonlight.
It's a beautiful sight to see good dancers doing simple steps. It's a painful sight to see beginners doing complicated patterns.
Thinking of death--strange, beautiful, terrible and a long way off--made me feel happier than ever.
But some characters in books are really real--Jane Austen's are; and I know those five Bennets at the opening of Pride and Prejudice, simply waiting to raven the young men at Netherfield Park, are not giving one thought to the real facts of marriage.
a loss of sensibility follows a loss of innocence, at once a penalty and a compensation.
My hand is very tired but I want to go on writing. I keep resting and thinking. All day I have been two people - the me imprisoned in yesterday and the me out here on the mound; and now there is a third me trying to get in - the me in what is going to happen next.
The one Bach piece I learnt made me feel I was being repeatedly hit on the head with a teaspoon.
I wanted to know more about the young ... strange that though they laughed so loud, they so seldom smiled. Perhaps laughter was involuntary whereas smiling was part of an attitude to life.
I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.
Though he had very little Latin beyond "Cave canem," he had, as a young dog, devoured Shakespeare (in a tasty leather binding).
Walking down Belmotte was the oddest sensation-- every step took us deeper into the mist until at last it closed over our heads. It was like being drowned in the ghost of water.
extreme happiness invites religion almost as much as extreme misery.
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