Masterpieces are not single and solitary births they are the outcome of many years of thinking in common, of thinking by the body of the people, so that the experience of the mass is behind the single...
You cannot find peace by avoiding life.
If one could be friendly with women, what a pleasure - the relationship so secret and private compared with relations with men. Why not write about it truthfully?
The connection between dress and war is not far to seek your finest clothes are those you wear as soldiers.
When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?
The beauty of the world...has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.
Writing is like sex. First you do it for love, then you do it for your friends, and then you do it for money.
As for my next book, I won't write it till it has grown heavy in my mind like a ripe pear; pendant, gravid, asking to be cut or it will fall.
The compensation of growing old...was simply this; that the passions remain as strong as ever, but one has gained - at last! - the power which adds the supreme flavor to existence, - the power of taki...
Why, if one wants to compare life to anything, one must liken it to being blown through the Tube at fifty miles an hour--landing at the other end without a single hairpin in one's hair! Shot out at th...
A biography is considered complete if it merely accounts for six or seven selves whereas a person may well have as many as a thousand.
George Eliot makes us share their lives, not in a spirit of condescension or of curiosity, but in a spirit of sympathy. She is no satirist....But she gathers in her large grasp a great bunch of the ma...
A sort of transaction went on between them, in which she was on one side, and life was on another, and she was always trying to get the better of it, as it was of her.
All extremes of feeling are allied with madness.
And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.
Be truthful, one would say, and the result is bound to be amazingly interesting.
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.
But our hatred is almost indistinguishable from our love.
But what after all is one night? A short space, especially when the darkness dims so soon, and so soon a bird sings, a cock crows, or a faint green quickens, like a turning leaf, in the hollow of the...
Despairing of human relationships (people were so difficult), she often went into her garden and got from her flowers a peace which men and women never gave her.
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