. . . clumsiness is often mated with a love of solitude.
To look life in the face, always, to look life in the face, and to know it for what it is...at last, to love it for what it is, and then, to put it away.
I am volatile for one, rigid for another, angular as an icicle in silver, or voluptuous as a candle flame in gold.
A biography is considered complete if it merely accounts for six or seven selves, whereas a person may well have as many as a thousand.
Life would split apart without letters.
How far do our feelings take their colour from the dive underground? I mean, what is the reality of any feeling?
When I cannot see words curling like rings of smoke round me I am in darkness—I am nothing.
Her life-that was the only chance she had-the short season between two silences.
Sometimes I think heaven must be one continuous unexhausted reading.
One can only believe entirely, perhaps, in what one cannot see.
At last she shut the book sharply, lay back, and drew a deep breath, expressive of the wonder which always marks the transition from the imaginary world to the real world.
The streets of London have their map, but our passions are uncharted. What are you going to meet if you turn this corner?
...she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.
Marvelous are the innocent.
And when we are writing the life of a woman, we may, it is agreed, waive our demand for action, and substitute love instead. Love, the poet has said, is a woman's whole existence.
There'll be oceans of talk and emotions without end.
The most extraordinary thing about writing is that when you've struck the right vein, tiredness goes. It must be an effort, thinking wrong.
it is strange how the dead leap out on us at street corners, or in dreams
Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends.
Life stand still here.
It is as if Emily Brontë could tear up all that we know human beings by, and fill these unrecognizable transparencies with such a gust of life that they transcend reality.
It is no use trying to sum people up. One must follow hints, not exactly what is said, nor yet entirely what is done.
War is not women's history.
It seems as if an age of genius must be succeeded by an age of endeavour; riot and extravagance by cleanliness and hard work.
I worship you, but I loathe marriage. I hate its smugness, its safety, its compromise and the thought of you interfering with my work, hindering me; what would you answer?
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