I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.
Do not move, do not go. Sink within this moment. Hold it for ever.
Intimacy is a difficult art.
Distorted realities have always been my cup of tea.
Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us.
It is fatal to be a man or woman pure and simple: one must be a woman manly, or a man womanly.
Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.
My mind works in idleness. To do nothing is often my most profitable way.
There must be another life, she thought, sinking back into her chair, exasperated. Not in dreams; but here and now, in this room, with living people. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice with her hair blown back; she was about to grasp something that just evaded her. There must be another life, here and now, she repeated. This is too short, too broken. We know nothing, even about ourselves.
To enjoy freedom we have to control ourselves.
The interest in life does not lie in what people do, nor even in their relations to each other, but largely in the power to communicate with a third party, antagonistic, enigmatic, yet perhaps persuadable, which one may call life in general.
Women have served all these centuries as looking glasses possessing the power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size.
Books are the mirrors of the soul.
As a woman I have no country. As a woman my country is the whole world.
The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging.
I feel all shadows of the universe multiplied deep inside my skin.
She had known happiness, exquisite happiness, intense happiness, and it silvered the rough waves a little more brightly, as daylight faded, and the blue went out of the sea and it rolled in waves of pure lemon which curved and swelled and broke upon the beach and the ecstasy burst in her eyes and waves of pure delight raced over the floor of her mind and she felt, It is enough! It is enough!
I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.
I feel that by writing I am doing what is far more necessary than anything else.
The artist after all is a solitary being.
I am reading six books at once, the only way of reading; since, as you will agree, one book is only a single unaccompanied note, and to get the full sound, one needs ten others at the same time.
The depths of the sea are only water after all.
We do not know our own souls, let alone the souls of others. Human beings do not go hand in hand the whole stretch of the way. There is a virgin forest in each; a snowfield where even the print of birds' feet is unknown. Here we go alone, and like it better so. Always to have sympathy, always to be accompanied, always to be understood would be intolerable.
Thus when I come to shape here at this table between my hands the story of my life and set it before you as a complete thing, I have to recall things gone far, gone deep, sunk into this life or that and become part of it; dreams, too, things surrounding me, and the inmates, those old half-articulate ghosts who keep up their hauntings by day and night... shadows of people one might have been; unborn selves.
Above all you must illumine your own soul with its profundities and its shallows, and its vanities and its generosities, and say what your beauty means to you or your plainness, and what is your relation to the ever-changing and turning world.
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