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...
She had borne so long this cruelty of belonging to him and not being claimed by him.
I love you, rotten,Delicious rottenness....wonderful are the hellish experiences,Orphic, delicateDionysos of the Underworld.
Nobody can be more clownish, more clumsy and sententiously in bad taste than Herman Melville.
He felt if he could not be alone, and if he could not be left alone, he would die.
It was like something lurking in the darkness within him...There is remained in the darkness, the great pain, tearing him at times, and then being silent.
You know, he said, with an effort, 'if one person loves, the other does.'…'I hope so, because if it were not, love might be a very terrible thing,' she said.'Yes, but it is - at least with most people...
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 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.
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...
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...
And they fear nothing, and they respect nothing, the young don't.
The days go by, through the brief silence of winter, when the sunshine is so still and pure, like iced wine, and the dead leaves gleam brown, and water sounds hoarse in the ravines.
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.