It's despair at the lack of (I'm cheating, I didn't say all these things - but I'm going to write what I want to say as well as what I did) feeling, of love, of reason in the world. It's despair that...
It was curious how quiet that last evening was; as if I had already left, and we were just two ghosts talking to each other.
We all write poems it is simply that poets are the ones who write in words.
I'm only happy when I forget to exist. When just my eyes or my ears or my skin exist.
Sıradan insan uygarlığın lanetidir.
Sometimes I almost pity them. I think I have a freedom they cannot understand. No insult, no blame can touch me. Because I have set myself beyond the pale. I am nothing, I am hardly human any more. I...
Fue como si me hubiera caído, desde el borde del mundo, al vacío. Un borde que apareció así, como de repente.
In spite of her superficial independence, her fundamental need was to cling.All her life was an attempt to disprove it; and so proved it. She was like a sea anemone -- had only to be touched once to a...
Why should I struggle through hundreds of pages of fabrication to reach half a dozen very little truths?''For fun?''Fun!' He pounced on the word. 'Words are for truth. For facts. Not fiction.
Perhaps twenty minutes later he realized she had gone to sleep. He quietly removed his now stiff arm, then turned away. It must have woken her a little After a moment he felt her turn as well and lay...
He was one of the most supremely stupid men I have ever met. He taught me a great deal.
[...] era un viso indimenticabile, un viso tragico. Sgorgava dolore con la stessa purezza, naturalezza e inarrestabilità con cui sgorga l'acqua da una sorgente nei boschi. Non c'era artificio in esso,...
Sono gli stessi gradini dai quali Jane Austen fa cadere Louisa Musgrove in . Come è romantico. Gli uomini erano romantici... allora.
Nice girl, dear boy.Oh . . . I shrugged. You know.Most attractive.Cheaper than central heating.I'm sure.
Liking other people is an illusion we have to cherish in ourselves if we are to live in society.
It was an unforgettable painting; it set a dense golden halo of light round the most trivial of moments, so that the moment, and all such moments, could never be completely trivial again.
From the hills behind, came the solitary voice of a girl. She must have been bringing down the goats, and she was singing wildly. At the limit of her uninhibited voice, without any recognizable melody...
An answer is always a form of death.
A total stranger, and one not of one's sex, is often the least prejudiced judge.
They're beautiful. But sad.'Everything's sad if you make it so, I said.