One's action ought to come out of an achieved stillness: not to be a mere rushing on.
A woman has to live her life, or live to repent not having lived it.
And dimly she realised one of the great laws of the human soul: that when the emotional soul receives a wounding shock, which does not kill the body, the soul seems to recover as the body recovers. Bu...
It was not the passion that was new to her, it was the yearning adoration. She knew she had always feared it, for it left her helpless; she feared it still, lest if she adored him too much, then she w...
Nobody can be more clownish, more clumsy and sententiously in bad taste than Herman Melville.
What one does in one's art, that is the breath of one's being. What one does in one's life, that is a bagatelle for the outsiders to fuss about.
Time went on grey, uncloured, like a long journey where she sat unconscious as the landscape unrolled beside her.
The dead don't die. They look on and help.
THE BOTTOMS succeeded to Hell Row. Hell Row was a block of thatched, bulging cottages that stood by the brookside on Greenhill Lane. There lived the colliers who worked in the little gin-pits two fiel...
She would have thought a woman would have died of shame. Instead of which, the shame died.
Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rath...
The more i live, the more i realize what strange creatures human beings are. some of them might just as well have a hundred legs, like a centipede, or six, like a lobster. the human consistency and di...
Why, oh why must one grow up, why must one inherit this heavy, numbing responsibility of living an undiscovered life? Out of the nothingness and the undifferentiated mass, to make something of herself...
Whatever life may be, and whatever horror men have made of it, the world is a lovely place, a magic place, something to marvel over. The world is an amazing place.
There is nothing to save, now all is lost,
I like to write when I feel spiteful. It is like having a good sneeze.(, November 1913)
Gods should be iridescent, like the rainbow in the storm. Man creates a God in his own image, and the gods grow old along with the men that made them... But the god-stuff roars eternally, like the sea...
The novel is the one bright book of life. Books are not life. They are only tremulations on the ether. But the novel as a tremulation can make the whole man alive tremble.
Lies About LoveWe are all liars, becauseThe truth of yesterdaybecomes a lie tomorrow,Whereas letters are fixed,and we live by the letter of truth.The love I feel for my friend, this year,is different...
Sleep is still most perfect, in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved.
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