That is partly why women marry - to keep up the fiction of being in the hub of things.
To walk into history is to be free at once, to be at large among people.
All good dialogue perhaps deals with something unprecedented.
Ghosts seem harder to please than we are; it is as though they haunted for haunting’s sake -- much as we relive, brood, and smoulder over our pasts.
I do like Italian graves; they look so much more lived in.
But complex people are never certain that they are not crooks, never certain their passports are quite in order, and are, therefore, unnerved by the slightest thing.
It is not our exalted feelings, it is our sentiments that build the necessary home.
Karen, her elbows folded on the deck-rail, wanted to share with someone the pleasure in being alone: this is the paradox of any happy solitude. She had never landed at Cork, so this hill and that hill beyond were as unexpected as pictures at which you say "Oh look!" Nobody was beside her to share the moment, which would have been imperfect with anyone else there.
Love of privacy - perhaps because of the increasing exactions of society - has become in many people almost pathological.
Dogs are a habit, I think.
Almost everybody wore a curious limpidity of expression, like newborn babies or souls just after death. Dazed but curiously dignified.... after a criseof hysterical revulsion and tiredness, I passed beyondand became entered by a rather sublime feeling.
But in general, for the purposes of most novelists, the number of objects genuinely necessary for. . .describing a scene will be found to be very small.
Pity the selfishness of lovers: it is brief, a forlorn hope; it is impossible.
...though one can be callous in Ireland one cannot be wholly opaque or material. An unearthly disturbance works in the spirit; reason can never reconcile one to life; nothing allays the wants one cannot explain.
But surely love wouldn't get so much talked about if there were not something in it?
... artists were intended to be an ornament to society. As a society in themselves they are unthinkable.
... any fictionis bound to be transposed autobiography.
I suspect victims; they win in the long run.
Two things are terrible in childhood: helplessness (being in other people's power) and apprehension - the apprehension that something is being concealed from us because it is too bad to be told.
What is a novel? I say: an invented story. At the same time a story which, though invented has the power to ring true. True to what? True to life as the reader knows life to be or, it may be, feels life to be. And I mean the adult, the grown-up reader. Such a reader has outgrown fairy tales, and we do not want the fantastic and the impossible. So I say to you that a novel must stand up to the adult tests of reality.
Sins cut boldly up through every class in society, but mere misdemeanours show a certain level in life.
Imagination of my kind is most caught, most fired, most worked upon by the unfamiliar: I have thrivenon the changes and chances, the dislocations andcontrasts which have made up so much of my life.
Dress has never been at all a straightforward business: so much subterranean interest and complex feeling attaches to it. As a topic ... it has a flowery head but deep roots in the passion. On the subject of dress almost no one, for one or another reason, feels truly indifferent: if their own clothes do not concern them, somebody else's do. ... Ten minutes talk about clothes (except between perfect friends) tends to make everyone present either overbearing, guarded or touchy.
If a theme or idea is too near the surface, the novel becomes simply a tract illustrating an idea.
For people who live on expectations, to face up to their realization is something of an ordeal.
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