Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting.
There was an emptiness about the heart of life; an attic room.
There is the strange power we have of changing facts by the force of the imagination.
Still, life had a way of adding day to day
So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say. But to sacrifice a hair of the head of your vision, a shade of...
She liked getting hold of some book... and keeping it to herself, and gnawing its contents in privacy, and pondering the meaning without sharing her thoughts with any one, or having to decide whether...
Second-hand books are wild books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the library lack. Besides, in this ra...
Oh, but she never wanted James to grow a day older or Cam either. These two she would have liked to keep for ever just as the way they were, demons of wickedness, angels of delight, never to see them...
Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm; words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and falls again. I am a poet, yes. Surely I am a great poet.
Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day.
Love and religion! thought Clarissa, going back into the drawing room, tingling all over. How detestable, how detestable they are!
Lord, lord, the snobbery of the English!
Life for both sexes — and I looked at them, shouldering their way along the pavement — is arduous, difficult, a perpetual struggle. It calls for gigantic courage and strength. More than anything, perh...
Let me pull myself out of these waters. But they heap themselves on me; they sweep me between their great shoulders; I am turned; I am tumbled; I am stretched, among these long lights, these long wave...
I’m not clear enough in the head to feel anything but varieties of dull anger and arrows of sadness.
It was the intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.
It was awful, he cried, awful, awful!Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things. Still, life had a way of adding day to day.
It seemed to her such nonsense-inventing differences, when people, heaven knows, were different enough without that.
I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.
I find myself saying briefly and prosaically that it is much more important to be oneself than anything else. Do not dream of influencing other people, I would say, if I knew how to make it sound exal...