I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.
Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.
When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?
As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.
A whole lifetime was too short to bring out, the full flavour; to extract every ounce of pleasure, every shade of meaning.
A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write 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.
Like all very handsome men who die tragically, he left not so much a character behind him as a legend. Youth and death shed a halo through which it is difficult to see a real face.
I'm sick to death of this particular self. I want another.
What does the brain matter compared with the heart?
With twice his wits, she had to see things through his eyes -- one of the tragedies of married life.
This is an important book, the critic assumes, because it deals with war. This is an insignificant book because it deals with the feelings of women in a drawing-room.
But words have been used too often; touched and turned, and left exposed to the dust of the street. The words we seek hang close to the tree. We come at dawn and find them sweet beneath the leaf.
Inevitably we look upon society, so kind to you, so harsh to us, as an ill-fitting form that distorts the truth; deforms the mind; fetters the will.
Dance music ... stirs some barbaric instinct - lulled asleep in our sober lives - you forget centuries of civilization in a second, & yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.
Still, life had a way of adding day to day
If the best of one's feelings means nothing to the person most concerned in those feelings, what reality is left us?
For there is a virtue in truth; it has an almost mystic power. Like radium, it seems to give off forever and ever grains of energy, atoms of light.
It would be a thousand pities if women wrote like men, or lived like men, or looked like men, for if two sexes are quite inadequate, considering the vastness and variety of the world, how should we manage with one only? Ought not education to bring out and fortify the differences rather than the similarities?
Illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth.
Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.
I do not want to be admired. I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions.
To read a novel is a difficult and complex art. You must be capable not only of great fineness of perception, but of great boldness of imagination.
I have lost friends, some by death...others by sheer inability to cross the street.
I will go down with my colours flying.
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