El sexo es un invento absurdo que a pesar de serlo no aspira más que hincharse y penetrar. Se supone que tiene algo que ver con el amor, por lo menos ésa es su leyenda, pero el amor es un mito estimul...
Eccentrics with unseeing eyes glided through, savouring amid so much society their own particular loneliness and private sins and sorrows.
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...
You've obviously never been in love.I have actually. And . And—always—without hope—I've never had my love reciprocated ever.
It was her birthday. She thought, I am always unhappy on this day.
Mercifully one forgets one's love affairs as one forgets one's dreams.
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.
—La gente no suele saber aplicar la filosofía. Dudo de que ni siquiera los filósofos sepan hacerlo.—La gente puede usar conceptos morales lo mismo que tú has usado ahora el concepto de la verdad para...
What greater torment than to see that light, and then to see it eternally withdrawn?
I was now, all the time, unutterably tired as if simply keeping alive was a terrible effort.
He did not touch her but enjoyed the particular intimate pain of the tension between them.
The cry of equality pulls everyone down.
A few people paused to look at him, but Londoners were by now so accustomed to 'weirdies' of all kinds that his ritual aroused little interest.
The same virtues, in the end, the same virtue (love), are required throughout, and fantasy (self) can prevent us from seeing a blade of grass just as it can prevent us from seeing another person. An i...
I am, I must confess, an obsessive and superstitious letter-writer. When I am troubled I will write any long letter rather than make a telephone call. This is perhaps because I invest letters with mag...
She was not just a wild creature, she was a wounded creature.
But I live, I , with an absolutely continuous sense of failure. I am always defeated, always.
I crave for love, everybody does . . . and I've never had a bloody crumb of it—and I've given so much love to people—I can really love people, I can, I let them walk over me—but nobody's ever loved me...
Love is the difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.
Some people are just 'diminishers' and 'spoilers' for others. I suppose almost everybody diminishes someone. A saint would be nobody's spoiler.