I ransack public libraries & find them full of sunk treasure.
I like going from one lighted room to another, such is my brain to me; lighted rooms.
Our friends - how distant, how mute, how seldom visited and little known. And I, too, am dim to my friends and unknown; a phantom, sometimes seen, often not. Life is a dream surely.
For pleasure has no relish unless we share it.
Criticism? An artist wants praise. Praise.
For this moment, this one moment, we are together. I press you to me. Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob.
The compensation of growing old ... was simply this; that the passion remains as strong as ever, but one has gained -- at last! -- the power which adds the supreme flavour to existence -- the power of taking hold of experience, of turning it round, slowly, in the light.
No sooner have you feasted on beauty with your eyes than your mind tells you that beauty is vain and beauty passes
The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.
Why are women... so much more interesting to men than men are to women?
Why is life so tragic; so like a little strip of pavement over an abyss. I look down; I feel giddy; I wonder how I am ever to walk to the end.
Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.
We live in constant danger of coming apart. The mystery of why we do not always come apart is the animating tension of all art.
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.
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.
I have lost friends, some by death...others by sheer inability to cross the street.
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.
If we help an educated man's daughter to go to Cambridge are we not forcing her to think not about education but about war? - not how she can learn, but how she can fight in order that she might win the same advantages as her brothers?
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.
A whole lifetime was too short to bring out, the full flavour; to extract every ounce of pleasure, every shade of meaning.
The older one grows, the more one likes indecency.
When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet. . . indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
... it's been a perpetual discovery, my life. A miracle.
Why, if it was an illusion, not praise the catastrophe, whatever it was, that destroyed illusion and put truth in it's place?
I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.
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