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.
When I cannot see words curling like rings of smoke round me I am in darkness—I am nothing.
Life would split apart without letters.
Her life-that was the only chance she had-the short season between two silences.
How far do our feelings take their colour from the dive underground? I mean, what is the reality of any feeling?
Sometimes I think heaven must be one continuous unexhausted reading.
...she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.
Marvelous are the innocent.
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?
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
Life piles up so fast that I have no time to write out the equally fast rising mound of reflections.
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.
Life stand still here.
It is no use trying to sum people up. One must follow hints, not exactly what is said, nor yet entirely what is done.
But why do I notice everything? She thought. Why must I think? She did not want to think. She wanted to force her mind to become a blank and lie back, and accept quietly, tolerantly, whatever came.
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?
War is not women's history.
If it were now to die, 'twere now to be most happy.
I see nothing. We may sink and settle on the waves. The sea will drum in my ears. The white petals will be darkened with sea water. They will float for a moment and then sink. Rolling over the waves will shoulder me under. Everything falls in a tremendous shower, dissolving me.
It is from the middle class that writers spring, because, it is in the middle class only that the practice of writing is as natural and habitual as hoeing a field or building a house.
The history of men's opposition to women's emancipation is more interesting perhaps than the story of that emancipation itself.
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