I wonder if my shrink (sorry, psychiatrist) was a woman not a man I'd be in a better or worse state?
Widows tend either to fade away when husbands die, committing emotional suttee, or else find that a new life burgeons. Here in Christchurch, a lot of burgeoning goes on.
I am an ordinary person, but carried to extremes.
Take me! Well, not quite take me, love me now, take me eventually
Food is the supremest of pleasures.
There was no such thing as defeat if you didn't accept it.
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.
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.
One can learn, at least. One can go on learning until the day one is cut off.
one learns best, and writes best, in a state of defiance.
Sound waves do not die out. They travel forever and forever. All our sentences are immortal. Our useless bleatings circle the universe for all eternity.
Fiction, on the whole, and if it is any good, tends to be a subversive element in society.
If you put a woman in a man's position, she will be more efficient, but no more kind.
by and large, nothing is as bad as you fear, or as good as you hope.
If infinity is as they describe it, all things are not just possible but in the end certain.
Writers are always a great nuisance to publishers. If they could do without them, they would.
Of course you have to believe in destiny; that everything is sheer chance is an intolerable notion.
Prudence says one thing, desire says another, and I'd rather go with desire any time.
One friend dies and we remain indifferent; another dies, perhaps less intimate, and we see ourselves as dead, and weep, mourn, tear our hair or find ourselves caught up in the madness of the wake, competing with others as to who was closest, now suffers most.
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