It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.
When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?
How can I express the darkness?
But how entirely I live in my imagination; how completely depend upon spurts of thought, coming as I walk, as I sit; things churning up in my mind and so making a perpetual pageant, which is to be my happiness.
Talents of the novelist: ... observation of character, analysis of emotion, people's feelings, personal relations.
Humor is the first of the gifts to perish in a foreign tongue.
I attain a different kind of beauty, achieve a symmetry by means of infinite discords, showing all the traces of the mind's passage through the world, achieve in the end some kind of whole made of shivering fragments.
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.
Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.
Why are women... so much more interesting to men than men are to women?
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.
And again she felt alone in the presence of her old antagonist, life.
These moments of escape are not to be despised. They come too seldom.
Fatigue is the safest sleeping draught.
If woman had no existence save in the fiction written by men, one would imagine her a person of utmost importance; very various; heroic and mean; splendid and sordid; infinitely beautiful and hideous in the extreme; as great as a man; some think even greater.
We can best help you to prevent war not by repeating your words and following your methods but by finding new words and creating new methods.
Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it.
As a woman, I have no country
Writing is still like heaving bricks over a wall.
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.
The mind must be allowed to settle undisturbed over the object in order to secrete the pearl.
Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day.
Love, the poet said, is woman's whole existence.
And yet, the only exciting life is the imaginary one.
I like the unreality of your mind; the whole thing is very splendid and voluptuous and absurd.
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