Thinking is my fighting.
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.
What does the brain matter compared with the heart?
For nothing was simply one thing.
It is only by putting it into words that I make it whole. This wholeness means that it has lost its power to hurt me; it gives me, perhaps because by doing so I take away the pain, a great delight to put the severed parts together
He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.
I like the unreality of your mind; the whole thing is very splendid and voluptuous and absurd.
Life without illusion is a ghostly affair.
A veil of insanity everywhere: Oh why I was born in this age? It is a terrible age.
The truer the facts the better the fiction.
But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? The entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self that took the veil and left the world -- a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.
I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.
As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.
The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.
I have lost friends, some by death...others by sheer inability to cross the street.
To know whom to write for is to know how to write.
I spent an hour looking at pots and carpets in the museums the other day, until the desire to describe them became like the desire for the lusts of the flesh.
Style is a very simple matter; it is all rhythm. Once you get that, you can't use the wrong words. But on the other hand here am I sitting after half the morning, crammed with ideas, and visions, and so on, and can't dislodge them, for lack of the right rhythm. Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than any words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it.
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 is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.
All extremes of feeling are allied to madness.
The extraordinary woman depends on the ordinary woman.
I prefer men to cauliflowers
Human beings have neither kindness, nor faith, nor charity beyond what serves to increase the pleasure of the moment.
Madness is terrific I can assure you, and not to be sniffed at; and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about. It shoots out of one everything shaped, final, not in mere driblets, as sanity does.
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