We live in constant danger of coming apart. The mystery of why we do not always come apart is the animating tension of all art.
Writing is still like heaving bricks over a wall.
I prefer men to cauliflowers
We do not know our own souls, let alone the souls of others. Human beings do not go hand in hand the whole stretch of the way. There is a virgin forest in each; a snowfield where even the print of birds' feet is unknown. Here we go alone, and like it better so. Always to have sympathy, always to be accompanied, always to be understood would be intolerable.
I have lost friends, some by death...others by sheer inability to cross the street.
We can best help you to prevent war not by repeating your words and following your methods but by finding new words and creating new methods.
If we help an educated man's daughter to go to Cambridge are we not forcing her to think not about education but about war? - not how she can learn, but how she can fight in order that she might win the same advantages as her brothers?
Intellectual freedom depends upon material things.
Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day.
A whole lifetime was too short to bring out, the full flavour; to extract every ounce of pleasure, every shade of meaning.
All this pitting of sex against sex, of quality against quality; all this claiming of superiority and imputing of inferiority belong to the private-school stage of human existence where there are sides, and it is necessary for one side to beat another side.
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.
... it's been a perpetual discovery, my life. A miracle.
She dares me to pour myself out like a living waterfall. She dares me to enter the soul that is more than my own; she extinguishes fear in mere seconds. She lets light come through.
I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.
Why, if it was an illusion, not praise the catastrophe, whatever it was, that destroyed illusion and put truth in it's place?
My mind works in idleness. To do nothing is often my most profitable way.
I am tied down with single words. But you wander off; you slip away; you rise up higher, with words and words in phrases.
...she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.
A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.
Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.
As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.
When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?
But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? The entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self that took the veil and left the world -- a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.
What does the brain matter compared with the heart?
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