We shall meet, but as strangers. It is the end of an era. A whole part of my life is torn away.
Sometimes I feel I am crammed with demons.
One can be too ingenious in trying to search out the truth. Sometimes one must simply respect its veiled face. Of course this is a love story.
Bereavement is a darkness impenetrable to the imagination of the unbereaved
There is a kind of despair involved in creation which I am sure any artist knows all about. In art, as in morality, great things go by the board because at the crucial moment we blink our eyes. When i...
Don't tease me. Everything wounds me now except perfect kindness.
So was she on the side of dragons and indifferent to the fate of princesses?
Male company, sheer complicit male company: the complicity of males which is like, indeed is, a kind of complicity in crime, in chauvinism, in getting away with things, in just gluttonously enjoying t...
Nothing will bring me peace except revenge.
Trains induce such terrible anxiety. They image the possibility of total and irrevocable failure. They are also dirty, rackety, packed with strangers, an object lesson in the foul contingency of life:...
Bellamy found simply a task of amazing difficulty. It was as if ordinary human life were a mobile machine full of holes, crannies, spaces, apertures, fissures, cavities, lairs, into one of which Bell...
Most friendships are a sort of frozen and undeveloping semi-hostility.
The unspoken words trembled in the air.
There is a time limit to how long a spirited young person can be kept in cold storage.
Our actions are like ships which we may watch set out to sea, and not know when or with what cargo they will return to port.
Let me sleep at last. I've had misery enough in my life. You said there was nowhere to go to. There is death to go to. I've had misery enough in my life.
He wanted to be a universal man . . . and I suppose that isn't possible now. He belongs in fifteenth-century Italy. This age doesn't suit him.
I adore your jealousy, especially when it's so misplaced. I expect Shakespeare wrote a sonnet about that.
The trouble with people nowadays is they don't know how to do nothing.
He suffers terribly all the time. He lives in fire.
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