He lay on his chair with his hands clasped above his paunch not reading, or sleeping, but basking like a creature gorged with existence.
Brooding, she changed the pool into the sea, and made the minnows into sharks and whales, and cast vast clouds over this tiny world by holding her hand against the sun, and so brought darkness and des...
An offering for the sake of offering, perhaps. Anyhow, it was her gift. Nothing else had she of the slightest importance; could not think, write, even play the piano. She muddled Armenians and Turks;...
A thing there was that mattered; a thing, wreathed about with chatter, defaced, obscured in her own life, let drop every day in corruption, lies, chatter. This he had preserved. Death was defiance. De...
I don't believe in aging. I believe in forever altering one's aspect to the sun.
Possible then the professor inited a little too emphatically upon the inferiority of omen, he was concerned not with their inferiority, but with his superiority.
The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.
For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.
When the body escaped mutilation, seldom did the heart go to the grave unscarred.
There is nothing staid, nothing settled, in this universe. All is rippling, all is dancing; all is quickness and triumph.
Sometimes I think heaven must be one continuous unexhausted reading.
So that is marriage, Lily thought, a man and a woman looking at a girl throwing a ball
Like and like and like--but what is the thing that lies beneath the semblance of the thing?
For pleasure has no relish unless we share it.
Are we not all prisoners? She had read a wonderful play about a man who scratched on the wall of his cell, and she had felt that was true of life—one scratched on the wall.
All who have brought about a state of sex-consciousness are to blame, and it is they who drive me, when I want to stretch my faculties on a book, to seek it in that happy age ... when the writer used...
The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver.
now that one was mature then, said Peter, one could watch, one could understand, and one did not lose the power of feeling, he said. No, that is true, said Sally. She felt more deeply, more passionate...
I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual
If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people.