She was like a crinkled poppy; with the desire to drink dry dust.
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...
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 is strange that we, who are capable of so much suffering, should inflict so much suffering.
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 need silence, and to be alone and to go out, and to save one hourto consider what has happened to my world, what death has done to myworld.
I need a little language such as lovers use, words of one syllable such as children speak when they come into the room and find their mother sewing and pick up some scrap of bright wool, a feather, or...
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 am the foam that sweeps and fills the uttermost rims of the rocks with whiteness; I am also a girl, here in this room.
Heaven has mercifully decreed that the secrets of all hearts are hidden so that we are lured on for ever to suspect something, perhaps, that does not exist.
For this is the truth about our soul, he thought, who fish-like inhabits deep seas and plies among obscurities threading her way between the boles of giant weeds, over sun-flickered spaces and on and...
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 I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing.
And you wish to be a poet; and you wish to be a lover.
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.
I live; I die; the sea comes over me; it's the blue that lasts.
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.
When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?
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?