Writing this letter is like putting a note in a bottle—
To dare it; to get away with it, to enter on preposterous adventures in your own, but newly named, skin.
The preference most of them had for seeing through their camera, rather than looking at the real thing, and so on.
One's appreciation of meager comforts, it seems, depends on what misery one has gone through before getting them.
He says the pills he's got her on will keep her from sinking too low. How low is too low, Roy thinks, and when can you tell?
And now such a warm commotion, such busy love.
Housework never really bothered me... what bothered me about it later was that it was expected to be your life... when you're a housewife, you are constantly interrupted. You have no space in your lif...
There ought to be one place you thought about and knew about and maybe longed for--but never did get to see.
The skin of everyday appearances stretched over such shamelessness, such consuming explosions of lust.
Love dies all the time, or at any rate it becomes distracted, overlaid--it might as well be dead.
It seemed to me that everybody ended up in Toronto at least for a little while.
If you were writing poetry it was somewhat safer to be a woman than a man.
I felt in him what women feel in men, something so tender, swollen, tyrannical, absurd; I would never take the consequences of interfering with it.
Few people, very few, have a treasure, and if you do you must hang on to it. You must not let yourself be waylaid and have it taken from you.
Children use that word hate to mean various things. It may mean that they are frightened...It is not physical harm that is feared...so much as some spell, or dark intention. It is a feeling you can ha...
It's not possible to advise a young writer because every young writer is so different. You might say, 'Read,' but a writer can read too much and be paralyzed. Or, 'Don't read, don't think, just write,...
Так что будь умницей, Хелен, и живи дальше, как все остальные, и скоро-скоро мы все увидим весну.
The dream was in fact a lot like the Vancouver weather—a dismal sort of longing, a rainy dreamy sadness, a weight that shifted round the heart.
That was her way. She carried not noticing to an extreme. Not noticing, not intruding, not suggesting.
She would live now, not read.