Беше тъмно; киша и безнадеждност. Фаровете ми бяха надвиснали над широка канавка, пълна с вода. Околността, ако имаше такава, се свеждаше до черна пустиня. Мъчих се да се измъкна, обаче задните ми кол...
For better or worse, it is the commentator who has the last word.
[...] leaving for a day or two that hopeless sense of loss which makes beauty what it is: a distant lone tree against golden heavens; ripples of light on the inner curve of a bridge; a thing impossibl...
You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go.
Without any wind blowing, the sheer weight of a raindrop, shining in parasitic luxury on a cordate leaf, caused its tip to dip, and what looked like a globule of quicksilver performed a sudden glissan...
Sleep is the most moronic fraternity in the world, with the heaviest dues and the crudest rituals. It is a mental torture I find debasing... I simply cannot get used to the nightly betrayal of reason,...
On such sunny, sad mornings I always feel in my bones that there is a chance yet of my not being excluded from Heaven, and that salvation may be granted to me despite the frozen mud and horror in my h...
My heart seemed everywhere at once.
Measure me while I live - after it will be too late.
It is a singular reaction, this sitting still and writing, writing, writing, or ruminating at length, which is much the same, really.
If told I am a bad poet, I smile; but if told I am a poor scholar, I reach for my heaviest dictionary.
If he was silent I could be silent too. Indeed, I could very well do with a little rest in this subdued, frightened-to-death rocking chair, before I drove to wherever the beast's lair was - and then p...
I wandered through various public rooms, glory below, gloom above: for the look of lust always is gloomy; lust is never quite sure--even when the velvety victim is locked up in one's dungeon--that som...
I am sentimental,’ she said. ‘I could dissect a koala but not its baby. I like the words damozel, eglantine, elegant. I love when you kiss my elongated white hand.
I am not, and never was, and never could have been, a brutal scoundrel.
Feeling a bit nervous, as most people do at the prospect of seeing a doctor, I thought I would buy on my way to him something soothing to prevent an accelerated pulse from misleading credulous science...
And yet I adore him. I think he's quite crazy, and with no place or occupation in life, and far from happy, and philosophically irresponsible – and there is absolutely nobody like him.
Although I could never get used to the constant state of anxiety in which the guilty, the great, and the tenderhearted live, I felt I was doing my best in the way of mimicry.
Although I am capable, through long dabbling in blue magic, of imitating any prose in the world (but singularly enough not verse—I am a miserable rhymester), I do not consider myself a true artist, sa...
All we have to do when reading Bleak House is to relax and let ourspines take over. Although we read with our minds, the seat ofartistic delight is between the shoulder blades. That little shiverbehin...