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.
I remember I would not stand still; I would not stop being perplexed by everything that spontaneously attracted me or caught my attention. I would never cease to look around me and observe myself in relation to nature: either crystal clear skies and sun-melting afternoons, or foggy winter days and weirdly tinted nights. I would never cease to dream and stand by the window, ready to let the diversity of life pass freely through my skin; courageous enough to believe I stood a chance in devouring each shade of sensation. Or perhaps, immensely foolish to plainly - believe at all.
It was the intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.
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.
If it were now to die, 'twere now to be most happy.
It's my choice, to choose how to live my life.
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.
The history of men's opposition to women's emancipation is more interesting perhaps than the story of that emancipation itself.
Every face, every shop, bedroom window, public-house, and dark square is a picture feverishly turned--in search of what? It is the same with books. What do we seek through millions of pages?
All this pitting of sex against sex, of quality against quality; all this claiming of superiority and imputing of inferiority belong to the private-school stage of human existence where there are sides, and it is necessary for one side to beat another side.
I am not so gifted as at one time seemed likely.
Odd how the creative power at once brings the whole universe to order.
The art of writing has for backbone some fierce attachment to an idea.
To depend upon a profession is a less odious form of slavery than to depend upon a father.
All women together ought to let flowers fall upon the tomb of Aphra Behn, for it was she who earned them the right to speak their minds.
Life piles up so fast that I have no time to write out the equally fast rising mound of reflections.
Often on a wet day I begin counting up; what I've read; what I haven't read.
Why, he wondered, did people who had been asleep always want to make out that they were extremely wide-awake?
One of the signs of passing youth is the birth of a sense of fellowship with other human beings as we take our place among them.
Mental fight means thinking against the current, not with it. It is our business to puncture gas bags and discover seeds of truth.
Why have I so little control? It is the case of much waste and pain in my life.
Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.
All great writers have, of course, an atmosphere in which they seem most at their ease and at their best; a mood of the general mind which they interpret and indeed almost discover, so that we come to read them rather for that than for any story or character or scene of seperate excellence.
I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual
Now the writer, I think, has the chance to live more than other people in the presence of ... reality. It is his business to find it and collect it and communicate it to the rest of us.
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