For now she need not think of anybody. She coud be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of - to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others... and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures.
Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.
It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality.
We must reconcile ourselves to a season of failures and fragments.
Thinking is my fighting.
Soup is cuisines kindest course
For nothing was simply one thing.
All extremes of feeling are allied to madness.
All extremes are dangerous.
It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.
I am reading six books at once, the only way of reading; since, as you will agree, one book is only a single unaccompanied note, and to get the full sound, one needs ten others at the same time.
One can only believe entirely, perhaps, in what one cannot see.
I will dream today; for I must unscrew my head somehow.
Really I don't like human nature unless all candied over with art.
Once conform, once do what other people do because they do it, and a lethargy steals over all the finer nerves and faculties of the soul. She becomes all outer show and inward emptiness; dull, callous, and indifferent.
No passion is stronger in the breast of a man than the desire to make others believe as he believes. Nothing so cuts at the root of his happiness and fills him with rage as the sense that another rates low what he prizes high.
And yet, the only exciting life is the imaginary one.
I like people to be unhappy because I like them to have souls.
One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with one's words.
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.
Yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.
Arrange whatever pieces come your way.
How can I express the darkness?
As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.
I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.
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