She could see that to lose a sibling was hard: it could only seem unnatural:out of time, out of order, a vicious re-run of your own departure into nothingness.
Prudence says one thing, desire says another, and I'd rather go with desire any time.
There is probably an innate masochism in a lot of women that ends up disappointed if men don't ill-treat them.
The desire for self-expression afflicts people when they feel there is something of themselves which is not getting through to the outside world.
We shelter children for a time; we live side by side with men; and that is all. We owe them nothing, and are owed nothing. I think we owe our friends more, especially our female friends.
Instinct' usually just means our conditioning to believe this or believe that, without thinking to investigate.
I was always furious because you couldn't take out more than three books in one day. You would go home with your three books and read them and it would still be only five o'clock. The library didn't shut till half past, but you couldn't change the books till the next day.
There is no real escape from autobiography into biography. The self has to be faced, or we die.
Be bold, but not too bold. Have courage, but not too much.
Writing is more than just the making of a series of comprehensible statements: it is the gathering in of connotations; the harvesting of them, like blackberries in a good season, ripe and heavy, snatched from among the thorns of logic.
The peculiar need to write is increased, it seems, rather than allayed with practice.
I like sex. I've had feedback but men will feed you back anything, won't they?
Ask any woman in an arranged marriage. Love is the least stressful way out.
Poetry, I thought then, and still do, is a matter of space on the page interrupted by a few well-chosen words, to give them importance. Prose is a less grand affair which has to stretch to the edges of the page to be convincing.
Letters crossing in the post, unfamiliar tunes heard three times in one day, the way that blows of fate descend upon the same bowed shoulders, and the beams of good fortune glow perpetually upon the blessed. Fairy tales, as I said, are lived out daily. There is far more going on in the world than we ever imagine.
A woman's body works as if it knew something she didn't, and does not have her best interests at heart. If you need to look your best it will deliver you a pimple; if you don't want it to, your period will start early; if you want a baby badly your body refuses to give you one; if you are content in your life, lo, you are pregnant.
Food is the supremest of pleasures.
memory is so selective; wishful thinking presses it into service all the time.
I have never got on with the quietist movements: they lapse too easily into self-congratulations: I have found the oneness, you have not. I prefer to look outside myself if I possibly can, not inside. Meditation reminds me too forcibly of being made to lie on a mat at nursery school and take an hour's nap.
I am an ordinary person, but carried to extremes.
If you wake up in the morning with a great sense of the things that have to be done in the day in order to get through to the next day, you lose the sense of the day as any kind of end in itself.
Of course you have to believe in destiny; that everything is sheer chance is an intolerable notion.
Writers are always a great nuisance to publishers. If they could do without them, they would.
Man seems not so much wicked as frail, unable to face pain, trouble and growing old. A good woman knows that nature is her enemy. Look at what it does to her.
Take me! Well, not quite take me, love me now, take me eventually
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