Nobody can be kinder than the narcissist while you react to life in his own terms.
Where would the Irish be without someone to be Irish at?
Wariness had driven away poetry; from hesitating to feel came the moment when you no longer could.
Grown-up people seem to be busy by clockwork... They run their unswerving course from object to object, directed by some mysterious inner needle that points all the time to what they must do next. You can only marvel at such misuse of time.
The passion of vanity has its own depths in the spirit, and is powerfully militant.
Only in a house where one has learnt to be lonely does one have this solicitude for things. One's relation to them, the daily seeing or touching, begins to become love, and to lay one open to pain.
Habit is not mere subjugation, it is a tender tie; when one remembers habit it seems to have been happiness.
Have not all poetic truths been already stated? The essence of a poetic truth is that no statement of it can be final.
At the age of twelve I was finding the world too small: it appeared to me like a dull, trim back garden, in which only trivial games could be played.
I pity people who do not care for Society. They are poorer for the oblation they do not make.
Autumn arrives in the early morning.
The importance to the writer of first writing must be out of all proportion of the actual value of what is written.
A Bowen, in the first place, made Bowen's Court. Since then, with a rather alarming sureness, Bowen's Court has made all the succeeding Bowens.
Dialogue should show the relationships among people.
All your youth you want to have your greatness taken for granted; when you find it taken for granted, you are unnerved.
Plot is the knowing of destination.
whenever possible I avoid talking. Reprieve from talking is my idea of a holiday. At risk of seeming unsociable, which I am, I admit I love to be left in a beatific trance, when I am in one. Friendly Romans recognize that wish.
Sacrificers ... are not the ones to pity. The ones to pity are those that they sacrifice. Oh, the sacrificers, they get it both ways. A person knows themselves that they're able to do without.
Ghosts, we hope, may be always with us - that is, never too far out of the reach of fancy. On the whole, it would seem they adapt themselves well, perhaps better than we do, to changing world conditions - they enlarge their domain, shift their hold on our nerves, and, dispossessed of one habitat, set up house in another. The universal battiness of our century looks like providing them with a propitious climate.
I can't see or feel the conflict between love and religion. To me, they're the same thing.
...the power-loving temperament is more dangerous when it either prefers or is forced to operate in what is materially a void. Wehave everything to dread from the dispossessed.
Also, perhaps children are sterner than grown-up people in their refusal to suffer, in their refusal, even, to feel at all.
writers do not find subjects: subjects find them. There is not so much a search as a state of open susceptibility.
The child lives in the book; but just as much the book lives in the child.
Characters should on the whole, be under rather than over articulate. What they intend to say should be more evident, more striking (because of its greater inner importance to the plot) than what they arrive at saying.
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