Writing has nothing to do with communication between person and person, only with communication between different parts of a person's mind.
Idiocy is the female defect ... It is no worse than the male defect, which is lunacy.
I have no faith in the sense of comforting beliefs which persuade me that all my troubles are blessings in disguise.
We think in youth that our bodies are identical to ourselves and have the same interests, but discover later in life that they are heartless companions who have been accidentally yoked with us, and who are as likely as not, in our extreme sickness or old age, to treat us with less mercy than we would have received at the hands of the worst bandits.
Unhappy people are dangerous.
I really write to find out what I know about something and what is to be known about something.
Nobody ever wrote a good book simply by collecting a number of accurate facts and valid ideas.
Because hypocrisy stinks in the nostrils one is likely to rate it as a more powerful agent for destruction than it is.
Submission to poverty is the unpardonable sin against the body. Submission to unhappiness is the unpardonable sin against the spirit.
art is at least in part a way of collecting information about the universe.
Marriage had certain commercial advantages. By it the man secures the exclusive right to the woman's body and by it, the woman binds the man to support her during the rest of her life.... A more disgraceful bargain was never struck.
The earth itself is slightly resistant to routine.
I find to my astonishment that an unhappy marriage goes on being unhappy when it is over.
Women know the damnation of charity because the habit of civilization has always been to throw them cheap alms rather than give them good wages.
Any authentic work of art must start an argument between the artist and his audience.
Only part of us is sane: only part of us loves pleasure and the longer day of happiness, wants to live to our nineties and die in peace, in a house that we built, that shall shelter those who come after us. The other half of us is nearly mad. It prefers the disagreeable to the agreeable, loves pain and its darker night despair, and wants to die in a catastrophe that will set back life to its beginnings and leave nothing of our house save its blackened foundations.
It is the soul's duty to be loyal to its own desires. It must abandon itself to its master passion.
Once a secret society establishes itself within an open society, there is no end to the hideous mistrust it must cause.
the law, like art, is always vainly racing to catch up with experience.
The memory, experiencing and re-experiencing, has such power over one's mere personal life, that one has merely lived.
The mind is its own enemy, that fights itself with the innumerable pliant and ineluctable arms of the octopus.
It is astonishing how the human animal survives its misfortunes.
A good cause has to be careful of the company it keeps.
Life ought to be a struggle of desire toward adventures whose nobility will fertilize the soul.
Motherhood is neither a duty nor a privilege, but simply the way that humanity can satisfy the desire for physical immortality and triumph over the fear of death.
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