Sleep, that deplorable curtailment of the joy of life.
Vain trifles as they seem, clothes have, they say, more important offices than to merely keep us warm. They change our view of the world and the world's view of us.
what she loved: life, London, this moment of june.
Women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time.
We live in constant danger of coming apart. The mystery of why we do not always come apart is the animating tension of all art.
It was the intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.
Soup is cuisines kindest course
There was a serenity about him always that had the look of innocence, when, technically, the word was no longer applicable.
Why, if it was an illusion, not praise the catastrophe, whatever it was, that destroyed illusion and put truth in it's place?
Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.
a novelist's chief desire is to be as unconscious as possible. He has to induce in himself a state of perpetual lethargy. He wants life to proceed with the utmost quiet and regularity. He wants to see the same faces, to read the same books, to do the same things day after day, month after month, while he is writing, so that nothing may break the illusion in which he is living - so that nothing may disturb or disquiet the mysterious nosings about, feelings around, darts, dashes, and sudden discoveries of that very shy and illusive spirit, the imagination.
It is fatal to be a man or woman pure and simple; one must be woman-manly or man-womanly. It is fatal for a woman to lay the least stress on any grievance; to plead even with justice any cause; in any way to speak consciously as a woman. And fatal is no figure of speech; for anything written with that conscious bias is doomed to death. It ceases to be fertilized.
more and more I come to loathe any dominion of one over another; any leadership, any imposition of the will.
As I grow old I hate the writing of letters more and more, and like getting them better and better.
By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. 'Tis the waking that kills us. He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.
This self now as I leant over the gate looking down over fields rolling in waves of colour beneath me made no answer. He threw up no opposition. He attempted no phrase. His fist did not form. I waited. I listened. Nothing came, nothing. I cried then with a sudden conviction of complete desertion. Now there is nothing. No fin breaks the waste of this immeasurable sea. Life has destroyed me. No echo comes when I speak, no varied words. This is more truly death than the death of friends, than the death of youth.
I see through most people; I'm hardly ever wrong. I see at once what they've got in them.
Like all very handsome men who die tragically, he left not so much a character behind him as a legend. Youth and death shed a halo through which it is difficult to see a real face.
You send a boy to school in order to make friends - the right sort.
Criticism? An artist wants praise. Praise.
literature is the record of our discontent.
But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.
They went in and out of each other's minds without any effort.
I mean it's the writing, not the being read, that excites me.
We shall be the mouthpieces of the divine spirit—
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