I burn, I shiver, out of this sun, into this shadow.
Your image has receded till it is like the thinnest shadow of the old moon... a thin silver edge appeared, and now you hang like a sickle over my life.
Her simplicity fathomed what clever people falsified.
The beauty of the world, which is so soon to perish, has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.
When I cannot see words curling like rings of smoke round me I am in darkness—I am nothing.
Well, I’ve had my fun; I’ve had it, he thought, looking up at the swinging baskets of pale geraniums. And it was smashed to atoms—his fun, for it was half made up, as he knew very well; invented, this...
This I say is the present moment; this is the first day of the summer holidays. This is part of the emerging monster to whom we are attached.
No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.
Listening (had there been any one to listen) from the upper rooms of the empty house only gigantic chaos streaked with lightning could have been heard tumbling and tossing, as the winds and waves disp...
Indeed there has never been any explanation of the ebb and flow in our veins--of happiness and unhappiness.
If Shakespeare had never existed, he asked, would the world have differed much from what it is today? Does the progress of civilization depend upon great men? Is the lot of the average human being bet...
I, who am perpetually making notes in the margin of my mind for some final statement, make this mark, waiting for some winter's evening.
Human beings have neither kindness, nor faith, nor charity beyond what serves to increase the pleasure of the moment.
Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another. Nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy; bring them together and they tear each other to pieces.
For it is probable that when people talk aloud, the selves (of which there may be more than two thousand) are conscious of disserverment, and are trying to communicate but when communication is establ...
Even the names of the books gave me food for thought.
Yet Byron never made tea as you do, who fill the pot so that when you put the lid on the tea spills over. There is a brown pool on the table--it is running among your books and papers. Now you mop it...
Though we see the same world, we see it through different eyes.
The lake of my mind, unbroken by oars, heaves placidly and soon sinks into an oily somnolence.’ That will be useful.
My belief is that if we live another century or so — I am talking of the common life which is the real life and not of the little separate lives which we live as individuals — and have five hundred a...