I like the unreality of your mind; the whole thing is very splendid and voluptuous and absurd.
The truer the facts the better the fiction.
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.
I want to write a novel about Silence," he said; “the things people don’t say.
The extraordinary woman depends on the ordinary woman.
The mind must be allowed to settle undisturbed over the object in order to secrete the pearl.
While fame impedes and constricts, obscurity wraps about a man like a mist; obscurity is dark, ample, and free; obscurity lets the mind take its way unimpeded. Over the obscure man is poured the merciful suffusion of darkness. None knows where he goes or comes. He may seek the truth and speak it; he alone is free; he alone is truthful, he alone is at peace.
The artist after all is a solitary being.
By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. 'Tis the waking that kills us. He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.
I ransack public libraries & find them full of sunk treasure.
Humor is the first of the gifts to perish in a foreign tongue.
Our friends - how distant, how mute, how seldom visited and little known. And I, too, am dim to my friends and unknown; a phantom, sometimes seen, often not. Life is a dream surely.
You send a boy to school in order to make friends - the right sort.
I like going from one lighted room to another, such is my brain to me; lighted rooms.
As I grow old I hate the writing of letters more and more, and like getting them better and better.
I do not want to be admired. I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions.
For pleasure has no relish unless we share it.
Criticism? An artist wants praise. Praise.
For this moment, this one moment, we are together. I press you to me. Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob.
The compensation of growing old ... was simply this; that the passion remains as strong as ever, but one has gained -- at last! -- the power which adds the supreme flavour to existence -- the power of taking hold of experience, of turning it round, slowly, in the light.
No sooner have you feasted on beauty with your eyes than your mind tells you that beauty is vain and beauty passes
Why are women... so much more interesting to men than men are to women?
The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.
Why is life so tragic; so like a little strip of pavement over an abyss. I look down; I feel giddy; I wonder how I am ever to walk to the end.
Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.
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