There is no substitute for the comfort supplied by the utterly taken-for-granted relationship.
All art deals with the absurd and aims at the simple. Good art speaks truth, indeed is truth, perhaps the only truth.
The only cure here was death. They were both gone out of my life.
Of course we have an 'unconscious mind' and this is partly what my book is about. But there is no general chart of that lost continent. Certainly not a 'scientific' one.
Now she did not even wish to try, for fear of rousing up something terrible.
Getting through time was rather the problem. The cry of 'Help me!' -- but there was no one there.
A bad review is even less important than whether it is raining in Patagonia.
O death, rock me asleep, bring me to quiet rest. Let pass my weary guilty ghost out of my careful breast.
To find someone -- oh yes -- that is the problem. To have mutual love, that is so difficult indeed.
It's terrible that one doesn't love people forever.
He could go back and take her in his arms. If only he knew how to do this. But they had lost the language of their affections, they had lost the style.
She did not want to be as before. She wanted great changes in her life.
Guilt feelings so often arise from accusations rather than from crimes.
The false god punishes, the true god slays.
The notion that one can liberate another soul from captivity is an illusion of the very young.
The bicycle is the most civilized conveyance known to man.
Anything that consoles is fake.
One must constantly meditate upon the absurdities of chance, a subject even more edifying than the subject of death.
The unspoken words trembled in the air.
You daren't think, so you live in a dream.
We must live by the light of our own self-satisfaction, through that secret vital busy inwardness which is even more remarkable than our reason.
How irrevocably spoilt, down to its minutest detail, his world was now. Even the countryside was spoilt, the animals, the birds, the flowers. There was nowhere to run to.
You're always wanting to be forgiven. What do you want to be forgiven for?
Mary thought suddenly, this is an abomination, sitting here and having this conventional conversation when I feel so desperate and deprived and torn inside. She thought, is there nothing I can do about it?
I don't know what love can do for the terrible things of life.
I'm afraid I don't know their address, but there it is, when people are gone they're gone, isn't it.
They had become, year by year, month by month, mysterious to her, her love for them an extended pain, a web or field of force, of which she felt at times the almost breaking tension.
"What is God anyway?"
"A dark place."
I must return to my freedom which I now realise is something so essential that it makes my love for you seem like death.
The calmness was the final tone of despair.
we have futures. That means we can make things true.
"Starting this relationship seems to me one of the better things you've ever done, however it ends."
"We can't separate it from how it ends."
Oh what a mad business, no good can come of it, only chaos, and not just chaos but evil. How did we gradually get entangled in such a terribly dangerous shambles!
The cry of equality pulls everyone down.
I tried to think these thoughts but they remained intolerably abstract, while a pain in my body told me what was real.
Bereavement is a darkness impenetrable to the imagination of the unbereaved.
They haven't been standing still in the past.
Only stories and magic really endure.
She tasted for the first time honey-sweet and dangerous happiness: dangerous because, as she before long began to learn, precarious.
Was this strange mode of life to go on and on?
Happiness is a matter of one's most ordinary everyday mode of consciousness being busy and lively and unconcerned with self.
I just hope -- if he does come -- it won't be some sort of horror show.
Some people are just 'diminishers' and 'spoilers' for others. I suppose almost everybody diminishes someone. A saint would be nobody's spoiler.
How sad for those who cannot enjoy what are after all prime pleasures of daily life, and perhaps for some the only ones, eating and drinking.
Jealousy is perhaps the most involuntary of all strong emotions. It steals consciousness, it lies deeper than thought. It is always there, like a blackness in the eye, it discolours the world.
Of course one never knows about other people's loves, and I would certainly never know about James's.
I lit another cigarette and wondered distantly how I would get through the day. It was a problem demanding some ingenuity.
This thought was so heavy with despair that she almost began to cry again.
All artists dream of a silence which they must enter, as some creatures return to the sea to spawn.
Perhaps misguided moral passion is better than confused indifference.
I can't believe in your other attachment.
Ludens thought, why can't I do that, why can't I just ask a woman to hold my hand, why can't I ask Franca to!
All art is the struggle to be, in a particular sort of way, virtuous.
Why did I ever leave them, what was I fleeing from? What spoilt scene that I could not then endure?
Was it that he had lived too long in his mind and was tired of the scenery?
You know when things get inside you and you can't stop going round and round the same piece of misery.
Somehow I've always wanted the ones that didn't want me. I'm the absolute queen bee of unrequited love.
I'm as lonely as a lunatic.
"Actually," said Gildas, "every marriage is an irreversible mistake. That's the secret which they all keep."
I tried deep breathing, but seemed to lose contact with myself between each breath, so that the next one was always an emergency. I began to feel faint.
But my wants are huge, my desires are rapacious, I want love, I want the splendour and violence of love, and I want it now, I want someone of my own.
A few people paused to look at him, but Londoners were by now so accustomed to 'weirdies' of all kinds that his ritual aroused little interest.
I can't see how anything can ever happen to us -- I mean, I feel as if, if we leave this place, we shall crumble to pieces.
Perhaps when distant people on other planets pick up some wavelength of ours all they hear is a continuous scream.
Philosophy! Empty thinking by ignorant conceited men who think they can digest without eating!
We're just living on our emotions and eating each other.
A middling talent makes for a more serene life.
Perhaps after all not to have been born is best. How near the human soul must be to nothingness if it can be so tossed.
Don't tease me. Everything wounds me now except perfect kindness.
On this diet of expectation, he had fairly frenzied himself by the time he arrived.
Art is the final cunning of the human soul which would rather do anything than face the gods.
He felt indestructible because destroyed.
That's how vile i am! I live Ireland, I breathe Ireland, and Christ how I loathe it, I wish I were a bloody Scot, that's how bloody awful it is being Irish!
I was born to be nothing and to have nothing.
Remember that the secret of all learning is patience and that curiosity is not the same thing as a thirst for knowledge.
Bereavement is my occupation and it absorbs me completely. You want me to touch you, to look at you with sympathy. I cannot.
I just enjoy translating, it's like opening one's mouth and hearing someone else's voice emerge.
"You are sad."
"I am always sad."
I'm not a lucky person who makes radiant decisions which are obviously right.
She would give ease to his too long wandering heart, and then he could live more fully in the world of other people, more able, because more happy, to give them his full attention.
But I've had such a rotten life. People like me are a problem.
How we tracked him, you most of all of course, and lost him and found him.
I feel half faded away like some figure in the background of an old picture.
"Don't be hurt by me."
"I can't help being hurt."
Because of what you have done things will happen later which can't possibly be foreseen.
You see, nobody cares about me except you. You don't know what that's like. You've always had people who cared. You've always had people. I've never had anybody. No wonder I feel frustrated.
I wanted consolation, I wanted love, I wanted, to save me, some colossal and powerful love such as I had never known before.
I struggled with a nebulous work which seemed now a nouvelle, now a vast novel, wherein a hero not unlike myself pursued, amid ghostly incidents, a series of reflections about life and art.
Maybe there are times when one should welcome defeat, tell it to come right in and sit down.
Why do I always have to be helping people ... and getting no help myself?
Their hands touched, their knees touched. They were both trembling.
I wonder if this is the end, thought Ducane, and if so what it will all have amounted to. How tawdry and small it has all been.
And now she had run into an emptiness more final than any words of rejection. He was gone and would make himself a stranger to her for ever.
Falling out of love is very enlightening.
For a short while you see the world with new eyes.
I believe that unfulfilled frustrated people probably spend a lot of their lives in pure fantasy-dreaming. This can I am sure be a great source of consolation though not always harmless.
One of the secrets of a happy life is continuous small treats.
She was a spoiler, a needler, an underminer, a diminisher, simply by instinct.
Everyone says how wonderful it is to be young. I've never seen it.
One doesn't have to get anywhere in a marriage. It's not a public conveyance.
Even now I shake and tremble as I write. Memory is too weak a name for this terrible evocation. Oh Hartley, Hartley, how timeless, how absolute love is. My love for you is unaware that I am old and you perhaps are dead.
Only let the scene end soon and without any horrors.
Who is one's first love? Who indeed.
All chances of happiness are gone from me. Just being with myself is hell all the time anyway.
What follows is ambiguous and sometimes tortuously told. Man's searchings and his strugglings are ambiguous and vowed to hidden ways. Those who live by that dark light will understand.
I am really in love and it's a terrible experience.
Emotions really exist at the bottom of the personality or at the top. In the middle they are acted. This is why all the world is a stage.
What a mystery a marriage was. What a strange and violent world, the world of matrimony. I was glad to be outside it. The idea of it filled me with a sort of queasy pity.
Coming events do cast shadows.
It seemed to echo away into the hidden spaces and honeycombs of the dark.
Here memory was simply a cold cloud to be shuddered at.
None of these things had really got to happen at all, since she could prevent them. The power of pure destruction was still hers. She could still make it death or glory.
What greater torment than to see that light, and then to see it eternally withdrawn?
Willy seemed like an inhabitant of some other dimension who could only tenuously communicate with the ordinary world. This would have troubled her less if she had not imagined his other dimension as a place of horror.
No love is entirely without worth, even when the frivolous calls to the frivolous and the base to the base.
In philosophy if you aren't moving at a snail's pace you aren't moving at all.
Yes, I am free, she said to herself, but it's not like ordinary freedom, it's being in hell, a brilliant lucid hell.
"Is that a quotation?"
"Only from me."
I wanted to drag us all down into some common pool of feeling, I wanted to stop this conventional machine of awful insincere politeness.
And what an intense heavenly blue the sea is, not a dark blue at all, but like a cauldron of light.
Give yourself to these great works of art. They suffice for a lifetime.
"You mustn't mind so much. It's all in your head."
"Well, I live in my head."
The flat was small and smelt of ancient things with which Gildas had not contended. In the sitting room shadowy photographs of Italian lakes had been hung high up by a previous tenant.
Good-bye to the past, with its mysteries which would never be fully unfolded.
I can't tell you--oh I can't tell you--how awful--how sort of unlivable--everything is now--like a great black wall in front of me--Something's got to smash.
It's just that I don't hope any more, I've lost my nerve.
One can be too ingenious in trying to search out the truth. Sometimes one must simply respect its veiled face. Of course this is a love story.
Here I am, after all, welcome home, I'm yours. To which Henry replied: When I wanted you you were not mine, when I needed you you rejected me. Why should I cherish you now?
I think being a woman is like being Irish... Everyone says you're important and nice, but you take second place all the time.
So art becomes not communication but mystification.
I think being a woman is like being Irish... Everyone says you're important and nice, but you take second place all the same.
No! I can't leave him, I'm bound to him, I'm made of him, I am him!
Ludens felt that everyone around him was living in the present, a place where he certainly could not live.
And could it be true without other awful things being true as well?
Ordinary consciousness simply becomes pain.
And this great love makes you both ruthless.
Your coldness has ruined my life. All right, you didn't mean it, all right I was a schoolgirl, but you could have been kinder to someone who said they loved you, you could have been gentle and grateful.
It ceased at last, as everything dreadful has to cease, even if it ceases only by death.
In almost every marriage there is a selfish and an unselfish partner. A pattern is set up and soon becomes inflexible, of one person always making the demands and one person always giving way.
We shall be better prepared for the future if we see how terrible, how doomed the present is.
Love is the extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.
Our actions are like ships which we may watch set out to sea, and not know when or with what cargo they will return to port.
Oh Christ, if I could only have some happiness.
I have seen much of human beings over a long period, and I have learnt how little good to expect from them.
He felt as if he were being used, as if Willy were using him as a hard neutral surface against which to crush, like insects, the thoughts which haunted him.
Your best friends are in trouble and you say 'of course' and forget them instantly.
To describe one's character is difficult and not necessarily illuminating. The story which follows will reveal, whether I will or no, what sort of person I am.
He was glad that he had expressed to her, however blunderingly, what he felt. He was glad that he had held her hand.
I think I fell in love with you when you were shouting at Romeo and Juliet, 'Don't touch each other!'
One can't stop people from killing themselves if they're determined to. It may even be wrong to do so.
I want you to be able to see me, and as my love for you is so much of me (all of me, making me more than myself) then you must see that too.
There was absolutely nothing that she could do with this huge emotion which she had so suddenly discovered in herself.
I had been confronted (at last) with a sizeable ordeal labelled with my name. This was not something to be wasted.
But now, when things had happened which were too appalling to think about, when his romantic love was a corpse and his cleverness a ghost, he knew where it was he wanted to lay his head.
By a dialectic well known to those who habitually succumb to temptation he passed in a second from the time when it was too early to struggle to the time when it was too late to struggle.
You can't imagine what it's like when every moment you're conscious you're in the most frightful pain.
Partly, I still felt something of the sheer unholy excitement which I had experienced initially at the thought of a friend (especially this one) in trouble.
So it is that we can be terrors to each other, and people in lonely rooms suffer humiliation and even damage because of others in whose consciousness perhaps they scarcely figure at all.
There's only one thing the matter and that's everything.
The young are self-satisfied really and utterly ruthless.
Love is the perception of individuals. Love is the extremely difficult realisation that something other than oneself is real.
Man's creative struggle, his search for wisdom and truth, is a love story.
Freedom is not choosing; that is merely the move that we make when all is already lost. Freedom is knowing and understanding and respecting things quite other than ourselves.
He suffers terribly all the time. He lives in fire.
She was dressed to go to bed only it was ridiculously early to go to bed. She desired to be unconscious.
He's had a bloody awful childhood. Like I had. Those things get passed on and on.
Henry's joy left him abruptly and he began anxiously to think about himself.
Enjoying literature as those alone enjoy it who have little else to enjoy.
You can't kiss me and vanish.
The bereaved cannot communicate with the unbereaved.
I'll never be happy, how can you love me, I'm awful, I'm covered with spiders, I'm doomed.
But I can't do anything for him and he can't do anything for me. We must wail in our own corners.
These young people have got to suffer, we can't save them from it --.
Girls don't want men to be quiet and gentle, I'm told. If you're not panting with impatient lust they think you're not interested.
And she shivered with a dazzled joy.
And all the time my very soul would travel with her, invisible and crying soundlessly with pain. I had acquired a dimension of suffering which would poison and devour my whole being, as far as I could see, forever.
Everything in his life now seemed to signal: too late.
I felt such a stranger there, like a poor lodger. One must be with one's own people.
Sometimes one feels suddenly doomed by fate.
Daytime sleep is a cursed slumber from which one wakes in despair.
The superiority of some infinite reserve and the mystery of some infinite sadness.
People have disappointed me and deceived me and let me down.
You can't go through the looking-glass without cutting yourself.
You understand nothing of--the horror--no wonder you can't write real books--you don't see--the horror--.
I need love, I've never felt more in need of it than now. I feel so terribly terribly unhappy.
He can do anything he likes and I'm so lonely, oh so lonely-- And I put up with it because there was nothing else to do--.
I've felt as if I didn't exist, as if I were invisible, miles away from the world, miles away. You can't imagine how much alone I've been all my life.
For most of us the space between 'dreaming on things to come' and 'it is too late, it is all over' is too tiny to enter.
The best you can hope for is a little peace and not too much remorse. Thoughts at peace under an English heaven.
Dogs are very different from cats in that they can be images of human virtue. They are like us.
Yes of course I was in love with my own youth. Aunt Estelle? Not really. Who is one's first love?
But I wanted to make what was terrible so much worse so as to be sure that it was fatal; like Hartley protecting herself by thinking I must hate her.
Sartre turns love into a ‘battle between two hypnotists in a closed room.'
But her heart was hurting her with its violence.
Year after year he wondered if he should go back and year after year felt it all recede from him past hope, past endeavour ... He could not find his way back there.
I've not often been happy or thought it was in my stars.
One can't whistle up happiness. It's a gift of nature and I haven't got it.
I love you. I saw you that night in the garden, and I knew you were magic like in dreams.
People who boast of happy marriages are, I submit, usually self-deceivers, if not actually liars.
Mary did not believe in analysing herself, and she had left vague the notion that sometimes came to her that this anxious unfulfilled sort of loving was the only kind of which she was capable.
It was dark now. A thin moon was visible, a bright portent, but giving no light.
He wanted to be a universal man ... and I suppose that isn't possible now. He belongs in fifteenth-century Italy. This age doesn't suit him.
Deep, deepest inside his wounded heart. he felt the new pain, the pain which would now travel with him always.
He felt himself falling into a state, very common when he was younger, of being totally cut off from the society he was in.
I thought it might make him despair of life, but he has despaired anyway.
I just can't live an ordinary life, I can't pass the time. I can't organise myself, I don't have ordinary motives any more. I can't even manage my body, when I go to bed I don't know where to put my arms.
Today we will read love poetry. You shall read aloud to me and we will weep together.
Perhaps there was an intimacy which did not need words.
Art is not cosy and it is not mocked. Art tells the only truth that ultimately matters. It is the light by which human things can be mended. And after art there is, let me assure you all, nothing.
Were they waltzing, at that fleeting moment which the camera seized and tossed on into the future? Her feet seem scarcely to touch the dance floor.
True politics is simply the drying of tears and the endless fight for freedom. Without freedom there is no art and no truth. I revere great artists and the men who say no to tyrants.
The whole thing, the way it all happened, was shattering. And what it shattered most of all was some conception I'd had of myself, some wholeness.
The madcap English weather which had been putting on a passable imitation of June now decided to play March.
Mary held her heart, contracted into a point of agony.
"You've obviously never been in love."
"I have actually. And awfully. And always -- without hope -- I've never had my love reciprocated ever."
Anywhere is dangerous if you carry danger with you.
Everyone seemed to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed except me.
What a test that is: more than devotion, admiration, passion. If you long and long for someone's company you love them.
Oh my life is so awful, it's just so awful to be me, you don't know what it's like waking every morning and finding the whole horror of being yourself still there.
I'm not like other people, my life just doesn't work, it never has.
Clement held her hand for a moment; knowing that after that moment the darkness would begin.
Sentimentally and in the soul it went on for ages, it still goes on, it goes on and on.
Of course you don't know yourself, lucky old you. I just know myself too bloody well.
There was a sort of grey dripping figure that kept trying to rise up in my mind and which I ruthlessly violently banished.
I'm sorry I was awful. I'm so full of terrors.
We need a moral philosophy in which the concept of love, so rarely mentioned now by philosophers, can once again be made central.
As it is I crawl on everyday towards the tomb. When I wake in the morning I think first of death, do you?
I ceased some time ago to believe in goodness.
Only art explains, and that cannot itself be explained.
Oh why is she going away just when I want so much to be with her! She is the answer to the riddle of my life.
God, how the young and beautiful vanish and are no more seen.
Sometimes one has got to become monstrous in order to survive.
We can only learn to love by loving.
But I had come to where I had never been before, the blessed point of sufficient desperation.
His eyes closed now, and for a long time they sat quietly thus. Such was their lovemaking.
Those who hope, by retiring from the world, to earn a holiday from human frailty, in themselves and others, are usually disappointed.
She thought sadly, gaiety and laughter are not in my destiny.
You can't go through the looking-glass without getting cut. You know that now, don't you?
Of course she had read this work many times before, but there were certain parts to which she passionately returned: so cool, so elegant, so beautiful, so terrible. As she read tears began to stream down her face.
These words had impressed Clement deeply, inscribed upon his heart.
As we live our precarious lives on the brink of the void, constantly coming closer to a state of nonbeing, we are all too often aware of our fragitlity.
How had this weird idea been conceived, how had it grown until it seemed inevitable?
But fantasy kills imagination, pornography is death to art.
He felt misery, loneliness, a terrible need for love.
What is more tormenting than a meeting after a long time, when all the words fall to the ground like dead things, and the spirit that should animate them floats disembodied in the air? We both felt its presence.
We did really love each other ... didn't we? Didn't we? In the name of that reality --
There were good times or goodish times, only the bad times were so--crucial.
Ludens experienced, as an extra pain, an intimation of the happiness he might have felt in such a place.
I felt so ashamed with them because everything in their life was going so well and they were so sort of successful. I couldn't talk about what I wanted with them and they were always in a hurry.
What happened after that, and will be related later, was something entirely unexpected and so awful that Ludens had never spoken about it afterwards to anyone.
I felt at times, it is hard to describe this, almost mad with guilt, with a sort of general guilt about my whole life.
"Is it true that the first time of falling in love is the worst?"
If Buddhists think evil is unreal they must be mad! Thinking evil is unreal is holding hands with evil under the table!
It's so sad, all our house seems broken apart, everyone is going.
How can we not be dooms to each other?
And she did seem then to go to sleep instantly: the quick flight into oblivion of the chronically unhappy person.
In the clairvoyance of this despair he had seen how much his folly had already damaged both of them.
Starting a novel is opening a door on a misty landscape; you can still see very little but you can smell the earth and feel the wind blowing.
She had inhibited her sympathy, one genuine sympathetic impulse would have ruined her.
A letter is a barrier, a reprieve, a charm against the world, an almost infallible method of acting at a distance.
He ... felt as if, wanting to be needed by everyone, he were merely becoming some sort of semi-invisible messenger.
There is no beyond, there is only here, the infinitely small, infinitely great and utterly demanding present.
It is unjust, it is so unjust, was her thought. I have never been recognized as myself.
He said, 'Forgive me for being a liar and a fool and an utterly worthless man.' Louise replied, 'I love you.' He took her in his arms for a moment and they held each other with closed eyes.
Suddenly, as if by the fiat of a wicked fairy, he had been utterly dispossessed.
Her love for men had always been somehow neurotic and unfulfilled.
But one must do something about the past. It doesn't just cease to be. It goes on existing and affecting the present, and in new and different ways, as if in some other dimension it too were growing.
Yet it was not that a rapture or a glory which had once shone around her had passed away from the world. The rapture and the glory whose hauntings she suffered had never manifested themselves in her life at all.
Art is not cozy and it is not mocked. Art tells the only truth that ultimately matters. It is the light by which human things can be mended. And after art there is, let me assure you all, nothing.
The room, the wall, trembled with precision, as if the inanimate world were about to utter a word.
Perhaps that was the only time which we should ever, ever have together. Perhaps it was something which would never, never, never come again.
It was like a comedy by Shakespeare. All the ends of the story were being bound up in a good way.
I feel so depressed. I have to be merry and bright while I just want to cry.
Everything is full of gods, cousin James once said, quoting somebody.
Human affairs are not serious, but they have to be taken seriously.
I crave for love, everybody does ... and I've never had a bloody crumb of it--and I've given so much love to people--I can really love people, I can, I let them walk over me--but nobody's ever loved me.
Priscilla is in hell. Well, we all are. Life is torture, consciousness is torture. All our little devices are just morphia to stop us from screaming ... We're each of us screaming away in our own private padded cell.
Writing is like getting married. One should never commit oneself until one is amazed at one's luck.
It is necessary to write, that much is clear, and to write in a way quite unlike any way which I have employed before.
Falling out of love is very enlightening. For a short while you see the world with new eyes.
I am out of the saga, he thought. He had a heavy sense of being left in total isolation; everyone had withdrawn from him and the person who could most have helped him was pre-empted by another.
And suffering we know breeds images, it breeds the most beautiful images of all.
I think we belong to each other.
She was not just a wild creature, she was a wounded creature.
Tuesday? My whole concept of the future had crumpled.
He had always thought of himself as a muddler, a sufferer, a victim.
I felt blank dismay, instant fear for myself. I did not want to be involved in any mess of Priscilla's. I did not even want to have to be sorry for Priscilla.
I am sorry that our friendship, or whatever name one may give to the obsessive relationship which has bound us together for so many years, should end in this way. This is not the place to utter its elegy.
The agony was of suddenly feeling herself so separate and so secret.
Please excuse this outpouring which perhaps makes no sense but is the utter darkness of my spirit pouring from me like black blood.
How hardening to the heart it must be to do this thing: to change an innocent soaring being into a bundle of struggling rags and pain.
I adore your jealousy, especially when it's so misplaced. I expect Shakespeare wrote a sonnet about that.
But the spark vanished, there was no longed-for recognition, no dawning sign of recovery. The love she had learnt in tending him was an enclosed love, muted and maimed, already mourning. They would never communicate now.
Politicians aren't concerned with justice being done, they're concerned with justice seeming to be done as a result of their keen-eyed vigilance.
I'm made for misery, misery, misery, I'm made to be destroyed!
For a while everything became too terrible, one could scarcely bear to be conscious.
You've got to see me, Martin. I'm to blame. I've never been quite and entirely myself with you. The situation didn't let me be. The untruthfulness infected everything. I must break out a little? Do you see at all?
I don't like you, I love you. You're a portent for me, a sign. I've always lived by signs.
How easily one is hurt. Or is it only I who am so stupidly vulnerable.
Perhaps this 'dead' feeling was also brought on by an intensification of her old secret sorrow. Perhaps one day this sorrow might end. But she did not think it would end or see how it could end.
Not to have been born is undoubtedly best, but sound sleep is second best.
I run, I run, I am gathered to your heart. But no, she thought, it's not like that. I am alone. I cannot reach anybody.
We shall meet, but as strangers. It is the end of an era. A whole part of my life is torn away.
Art is a kind of artificial memory and the pain which attends all serious art is a sense of that factitiousness.
I am not a very nice character. You must get to know me some time.
Marriage isn't a tram. It doesn't have to get anywhere.
But these speculations are too nightmarish. Better to feel 'I shall never know.'
But there are times of suffering which remain in our lives like black absolutes and are not blotted out. Fortunate are those for whom these black stars shed some sort of light.
Look Moy, see the chimneys, they've lit all the fires, they must have known we were going to try to drown ourselves. And Anax is running on ahead to bring the news.
We are all potentially demons to each other, but some close relationships are saved from this fate.
I will not attempt to describe how I got through the next few days. There are desolations of the spirit which can only be hinted at. I sat there huge-eyed in the wreck of myself.
Of course, my dear, I cannot, how could I, altogether regret what has happened.
He was attentive but impersonal, and esteemed rather than loved.
But oh -- time has become such a torture, a slow torture. One tries to capture a piece of time that lies ahead and is full of light ... but thinking about that just makes this awful black time even blacker.
Theo wanted to call him back. But then he thought, oh let him go, there's no mending a fruitless love, it just has to be endured.
This is an age of demons and amoral angels and all sorts of deep fears, like the first centuries of the Christian era, it's an age of extreme solutions.
I see myself as Rhoda, not Mary Tyler Moore.
He was extremely angry with Bellamy who had, when Clement needed him, refused to be with him.
If at that moment Clement had caught sight of the dog and had managed to capture him, the fates of a number of people in this story would have been entirely different. Such is the vast play of chance in human lives.
Art and psychoanalysis give shape and meaning to life and that is why we adore them, but life as it is lived has no shape and meaning, and that is what I am experiencing just now.
I did love her in a way, but it was under the sign of doom.
Of course reading and thinking are important but, my God, food is important too.
How could two such different worlds co-exist, how could they communicate?
Little pictures out of hell.
One's capacity to forget absolutely is immense.
Most of our love is shabby stuff, but there is always a thin line of gold, the bit of pure love on which all the rest depends -- and which redeems all the rest.
Are we not somehow compelled by love? I shall not let one day pass without giving you the assurance of mine. Surely there is a future for us together. I am yours yours yours.
He had lived throughout upon magic, upon romantic love in its fullest sense, and this magic, now that she was gone, seemed sometimes likely to kill him.
Anyway, as you say, what the hell. I know, I've been to hell, I've seen it, I've been shown round. I'll kill myself. You'll see, you'll be sorry.
In the torpor of the afternoon the remembered road had the slightly menacing and elusive familiarity of a place in a dream when one thinks: I have been here, yet where is it and what is going to happen?
Come in, defeat, come in and make yourself at home.
He lay on his back listening to his mother's quiet snoring and thinking how increasingly awful his life was becoming. It was as if he were being squeezed out of the world.
Of what value after all is a power which one could never use, or at any rate did not know how to use?
Perhaps one could not live with such knowledge. One might die for it, or of it.
There was a shadowy light, not exactly twilight, but an uncertain vivid yet hazy illumination, wherein people walked like spirits, bathed in light and not revealed.
I'm being led -- on some dark way.
Only take someone's hand in a certain way, even look into their eyes in a certain way, and the world is changed forever.
Lately Louise had decided to give up wearing make-up altogether, but had not yet acted upon the decision.
She thought, I am becoming a recluse. Yes, that's it, that is the way.
I told you I was going to retire from the world. That's still on. You remember that.
And she looked at her life and seemed to understand it and to grieve over it as if it were already over.
He thought about the future and it was a vibrating darkness. He felt fear.
The absolute yearning of one human body for another particular body and its indifference to substitutes is one of life's major mysteries.
The human soul is not framed for continued proximity, and the result of this enforced neighbourhood is often an appalling loneliness for which the rules of the game forbid assuagement.
I know people can be awful dooms for each other.
We think with our body, with its yearnings and its shrinkings and its ghostly walkings.
Moreover, and of course, she loved him; but in Sefton's stern code her love had always been chained up, and howled fruitlessly, as indeed it did now.
Falling out of love is very enlightening; for a short while you see the world with new eyes.
Charles, don't destroy yourself," said James. "Why are you always so intent on breaking everything that surrounds and supports you?
She had never been filled with her love like a calm brimming vessel. She had rather suffered it, as a tree might suffer a cold wind, and the image of a coldness was somehow mingled with her memories of marital love.
Literature could be said to be a sort of disciplined technique for arousing certain emotions.
Between saying and doing, many a pair of shoes is worn out.
That love all belonged to the elapsed moment.
There is nothing like the bootless solitude of those who are caged together.
And now in her deep heart an even sharper pain was stirring, a pain which would stay with her always.
Some inner organ would give way, her heart would literally break, if she did not see him soon.
Let me sleep at last. I've had misery enough in my life. You said there was nowhere to go to. There is death to go to. I've had misery enough in my life.
There are eternal bonds which are made in registry offices and in churches, there are eternal bonds which are made in other and stranger and more terrible ways.
Darkness was staining all the intricate channels of what had once seemed so perfect.
The room had the rather sinister tedium which some bedrooms have, a sort of weary banality which is a reminder of death. A dressing table can be a terrible thing.
No one, thank God, has attempted to befriend me.
She was a part, an evidence, of some pure uncracked unfissured confidence in the good which was never there for me again.
Every book is the wreck of a perfect idea.
You get so worked up and flowery! You sound as if you were quoting something all the time!
He wished he was not always young again in his dreams, it made waking up so sad.
Sometimes I feel I am crammed with demons.
It is necessary at this point to recount what actually occurred, as opposed to what was generally supposed to have occurred, on that terrible evening when Lucas killed a man.
She lived in private with her own horror.
I have battered destructively and in vain upon the mystery of someone else's life and must cease at last.
The place was still there, present in the sunshine, instead of being hidden far away in darkness in the confines of some tragic opera.
Most real relationships are involuntary.
The sin of pride may be a small or a great thing in someone's life, and hurt vanity a passing pinprick, or a self-destroying or ever murderous obsession.
Perhaps he has realised now that he's trapped here and has to suffer with us and become mortal and die.
A childhood hatred, like a childhood love, can last a lifetime.
But she felt that she had to see him or she would die.
True love gallops, it flies, it is the swiftest of all modes of thought, swifter even than hate and fear.
In a happy marriage there is a continuous dense magnetic sense of communication.
The theatre is a tragic place, full of endings and partings and heartbreak.
Happiness must exist. It can't all be made of pain. But what is happiness made of?
The new world, he thought, the new life, and how sad it is. I suppose I should be congratulating myself, it may even be that later I shall look back on this as heaven.
I've been so unhappy for years, so unhappy ... I don't understand how a human being can be so unhappy all the time and still be alive.
And even in those seconds, and even as I wondered with anguish whether I would ever see her again, I lived with her in some angelic timeless world of quiet communication and absolute understanding.
How much harm, eddying outward in fateful circles, Clement was beginning to foresee.
On this planet ... many things are 'the rule' which are thoroughly evil and pernicious.
We are not isolated free choosers, monarchs of all we survey, but benighted creatures sunk in a reality whose nature we are constantly and overwhelmingly tempted to deform by fantasy.
Only love has clear vision. Hatred has cloudy vision. When we hate we know not what we do.
No good would come of all these fine intentions.
There is a time limit to how long a spirited young person can be kept in cold storage.
What was to change many lives happened, and happened very fast in the next moments.
I am just a past with no present.
I think being a woman is like being Irish. Everyone says you're important and nice, but you take second place all the same.
You can't magic yourself out of the situation, you've got to live it as decently and as grimly as you can.
I daresay anything can be made holy by being sincerely worshipped.
You're such an agonizer, Bradley. You romanticize art. You're a masochist about it, you want to suffer, you want to feel that your inability to create is continuously significant.
He looked so sad. I never saw him look sad before, he was always so superior, everywhere the king. You once called him a god from elsewhere who had lost his way.
He was capable of hurting Ludens even to the point sometimes of deliberate malice.