Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.
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.
We are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.
Intimacy is a difficult art.
The artist after all is a solitary being.
In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.
Distorted realities have always been my cup of tea.
I feel all shadows of the universe multiplied deep inside my skin.
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.
I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.
I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.
To enjoy freedom we have to control ourselves.
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.
The depths of the sea are only water after all.
The beauty of the world, which is so soon to perish, has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.
The world is crammed with delightful things
Books are the mirrors of the soul.
As a woman I have no country. As a woman my country is the whole world.
Never pretend that the things you haven't got are not worth having.
Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us.
There is the strange power we have of changing facts by the force of the imagination.
A perfect treat must include a trip to a second-hand bookshop.
For the eye has this strange property: it rests only on beauty.
Our apparitions, the things you know us by, are simply childish. Beneath it is all dark, it is all spreading, it is unfathomably deep; but now and again we rise to the surface and that is what you see us by.
I am overwhelmed with things I ought to have written about and never found the proper words.
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