She belonged to a different age, but being so entire, so complete, would always stand up on the horizon, stone-white, eminent, like a lighthouse marking some past stage on this adventurous, long, long voyage, this interminable --- this interminable life.
What does the brain matter compared with the heart?
Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.
She thought there were no Gods; no one was to blame; and so she evolved this atheist's religion of doing good for the sake of goodness.
She had the perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very, dangerous to live even one day.
He thought her beautiful, believed her impeccably wise; dreamed of her, wrote poems to her, which, ignoring the subject, she corrected in red ink.
Still, life had a way of adding day to day
Virginia Woolf's great novel, 'Mrs. Dalloway,' is the first great book I ever read. I read it almost by accident when I was in high school, when I was 15 years old.
...she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.
Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.
It might be possible that the world itself is without meaning.
Did it matter then, she asked herself, walking towards Bond Street, did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely? All this must go on without her; did she resent it; or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely?
Mrs Dalloway is always giving parties to cover the silence
Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.
Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall
Fear no more, says the heart.
It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.
The world has raised its whip; where will it descend?
For women live much more in the past...they attach themselves to places.
After that, how unbelievable death was! - that is must end; and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all.
But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.
Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.
What is this terror? what is this ecstasy? he thought to himself. What is it that fills me with this extraordinary excitement? It is Clarissa, he said. For there she was.
Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things. Still, life had a way of adding day to day
Human beings have neither kindness, nor faith, nor charity beyond what serves to increase the pleasure of the moment.
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