That is why Napoleon and Mussolini both insist so emphatically upon the inferiority of women, for if they were not inferior, they would cease to enlarge. That serves to explain in part the necessity t...
That is my face,' said Rhoda, 'in the looking-glass behind Susan's shoulder - that is my face. But I will duck behind her to hide it, for I am not here. I have no face. Other people have faces; Susan...
Pray heaven that the inside of my mind may not be exposed
Other people have faces; Susan and Jinny have faces; they are here. Their world is the real world. The things they lift are heavy. They say Yes, they say No; whereas I shift and change and am seen thr...
One might fancy that day, the London day, was just beginning. Like a woman who had slipped off her print dress and white apron to array herself in blue and pearls, the day changed, put off stuff, took...
On the outskirts of every agony sits some observant fellow who points.
My notion's to think of the human beings first and let the abstract ideas take care of themselves.
Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.
Marvelous are the innocent.
It might be possible that the world itself is without meaning.
It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.
Illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth.
I belong to quick, futile moments of intense feeling. Yes, I belong to moments. Not to people.
He turned from the sight of human ignorance and human fate and the sea eating the ground we stand on, which, had he been able to contemplate it fixedly might have led to something; and found consolati...
For this moment, this one moment, we are together. I press you to me. Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob.
For the young people could not talk. And why should they? Shout, embrace, swing, be up at dawn...
For she had come to feel that it was the only thing worth saying--what one felt. Cleverness was silly. One must simply say what one felt.
Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall
But the close withdrew: the hand softened. It was over-- the moment.
Among the tortures and devestations of life is this then - our friends are not able to finish their stories.