Thinking is my fighting.
There is nothing staid, nothing settled, in this universe. All is rippling, all is dancing; all is quickness and triumph.
I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful.
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...
One of the signs of passing youth is the birth of a sense of fellowhip with other human beings as we take our place among them.
The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver.
I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual
Tragedies come in the hungry hours.
To let oneself be carried on passively is unthinkable.
Thoughts are divine.
They came to her, naturally, since she was a woman, all day long with this and that; one wanting this, another that; the children were growing up; she often felt she was nothing but a sponge sopped fu...
There was an emptiness about the heart of life; an attic room.
The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging.
Sometimes I think heaven must be one continuous unexhausted reading.
One can only believe entirely, perhaps, in what one cannot see.
Like and like and like--but what is the thing that lies beneath the semblance of the thing?
Let us record the atoms as they fall upon the mind in the order in which they fall, let us trace the pattern, however disconnected and incoherent in appearance, which each sight or incident scores upo...
If one is to deal with people on a large scale and say what one thinks, how can one avoid melancholy? I don’t admit to being hopeless, though: only the spectacle is a profoundly strange one; and as th...
I'm sick to death of this particular self. I want another.
I like observing people. I like looking at things.