There was nobody. Her words faded. So a rocket fades. Its sparks, having grazed their way into the night, surrender to it, dark descends, pours over the outlines of houses and towers; bleak hillsides...
The hatchet must fall on the block; the oak must be cleft to the centre. The weight of the world is on my shoulders. Here is the pen and the paper; on the letters in the wire basket I sign my name, I,...
The cold stream of visual impressions failed him now as if the eye were a cup that overflowed and let the rest run down its china walls unrecorded.
No passion is stronger in the breast of a man than the desire to make others believe as he believes. Nothing so cuts at the root of his happiness and fills him with rage as the sense that another rate...
No guinea of earned money should go to rebuilding the college on the old plan just as certainly none could be spent upon building a college upon a new plan: therefore the guinea should be earmarked Ra...
Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.
Let us go, then, exploring, this summer morning, when all are adoring the plum blossom and the bee.
It rasped her, though, to have stirring about in her this brutal monster! to hear twigs cracking and feel hooves planted down in the depths of that leaf-encumbered forest, the soul; never to be conten...
It appeared that nobody ever said a thing they meant, or ever talked of a feeling they felt, but that was what music was for.
I see the mountains in the sky; the great clouds; and the moon; I have a great and astonishing sense of something there, which is it—it is not exactly beauty that I mean. It is that the thing is in it...
I have had my vision.
I feel that I have had a blow; but it is not, as I thought as a child, simply a blow from an enemy hidden behind the cotton wool of daily life; it is or will become a revelation of some order; it is a...
I detest the masculine point of view. I am bored by his heroism, virtue, and honour. I think the best these men can do is not talk about themselves anymore.
I belong to quick, futile moments of intense feeling. Yes, I belong to moments. Not to people.
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.
Death was defiance. Death was an attempt to communicate; people feeling the impossibility of reaching the center which, mystically, evaded them; closeness drew apart; rapture faded, one was alone. The...
But Sasha was from Russia, where the sunsets are longer, the dawns less sudden and sentences are often left unfinished from doubt as how to best end them.
Be truthful, one would say, and the result is bound to be amazingly interesting.
A book is not made of sentences laid end to end, but of sentences built, if an image helps, into arcades or domes.
He is limp and damp and milder than the breath of a cow.