Books are the mirrors of the soul.
A leering, sneering obscene little harpy.
It was a silly, silly dream, being unhappy.
Humor is the first of the gifts to perish in a foreign tongue.
For," the outsider will say, "in fact, as a woman, I have no country. As a woman I want no country.
I am reading six books at once, the only way of reading; since, as you will agree, one book is only a single unaccompanied note, and to get the full sound, one needs ten others at the same time.
Habits and customs are a convenience devised for the support of timid natures who dare not allow their souls free play.
It was anger that had gone underground and mixed itself with all kinds of other emotions. To judge from its odd effects, it was anger disguised and complex, not anger simple and open.
The mind is the most capricious of insects--flitting, fluttering.
I like books whose virtue is all drawn together in a page or two. I like sentences that don't budge though armies cross them.
A self that goes on changing is a self that goes on living.
His eyes were bright, and, indeed, he scarcely knew whether they held dreams or realities...and in five minutes she had filled the shell of the old dream with the flesh of life.
Our apparitions, the things you know us by, are simply childish. Beneath it is all dark, it is all spreading, it is unfathomably deep; but now and again we rise to the surface and that is what you see us by.
This is an important book, the critic assumes, because it deals with war. This is an insignificant book because it deals with the feelings of women in a drawing-room.
Be truthful, and the result is bound to be amazingly interesting.
Nothing, however, can be more arrogant, though nothing is commoner than to assume that of Gods there is only one, and of religions none but the speaker's.
I should like to tidy things up and disappear.
The man looks the world full in the face, as if it were made for his uses and fashioned to his liking. The woman takes a sidelong glance at it, full of subtlety, even of suspicion.
With twice his wits, she had to see things through his eyes -- one of the tragedies of married life.
But Sasha who after all had no English blood in her but was from Russia where the sunsets are longer, the dawns less sudden, and sentences often left unfinished from doubt as to how best to end them.
In marriage a little licence, a little independence there must be between people living together day in and day out in the same house.
The history of men's opposition to women's emancipation is more interesting perhaps than the story of that emancipation itself.
This is not writing at all. Indeed, I could say that Shakespeare surpasses literature altogether, if I knew what I meant.
The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark.
You have been in every way all that anyone could be.... If anybody could have saved me it would have been you.
Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death!
Oh, yes, dear reader: the essay is alive. There is no reason to despair.
Why, he wondered, did people who had been asleep always want to make out that they were extremely wide-awake?
Here was a woman about the year 1800 writing without hate, without bitterness, without fear, without protest, without preaching. That was how Shakespeare wrote.
I attain a different kind of beauty, achieve a symmetry by means of infinite discords, showing all the traces of the mind's passage through the world, achieve in the end some kind of whole made of shivering fragments.
She put on her lace collar. She put on her new hat and he never noticed; and he was happy without her.
Who shall measure the hat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?
For once the disease of reading has laid upon the system it weakens so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the ink pot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing.
After that, how unbelievable death was! -- that is must end; and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all.
Her simplicity fathomed what clever people falsified.
Fiction is like a spider's web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners. Often the attachment is scarcely perceptible.
To be caught happy in a world of misery was for an honest man the most despicable of crimes.
The mind of an artist, in order to achieve the prodigious effort of freeing whole and entire the work that is in him, must be incandescent...there must be no obstacle in it, no foreign matter unconsumed.
To survive, each sentence must have, at its heart, a little spark of fire, and this, whatever the risk, the novelist must pluck with his own hands from the blaze.
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.
I begin to be impatient of solitude -- to feel its draperies hang sweltering, unwholesome about me.
At last she shut the book sharply, lay back, and drew a deep breath, expressive of the wonder which always marks the transition from the imaginary world to the real world.
It flattered her, where she was most susceptible of flattery, to think how, wound about in their hearts, however long they lived she would be woven.
The winds and waves disported themselves like the amorphous bulks of leviathans whose brows are pierced by no light of reason.
What is this terror? what is this ecstasy? he thought to himself. What is it that fills me with this extraordinary excitement? It is Clarissa, he said. For there she was.
Theories then are dangerous things.
Thought and theory must precede all salutary action; yet action is nobler in itself than either thought or theory.
The world has raised its whip; where will it descend?
Mental fight means thinking against the current, not with it. It is our business to puncture gas bags and discover seeds of truth.
The most important thing is not to think very much about oneself. To investigate candidly the charge; but not fussily, not very anxiously. On no account to retaliate by going to the other extreme -- thinking too much.
The first duty of a lecturer: to hand you after an hour's discourse a nugget of pure truth to wrap up between the pages of your notebooks, and keep on the mantelpiece forever.
The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme, the young translated into practice.
I raged, and woke to hear the rain.
Shakespeare} the word-coining genius, as if thought plunged into a sea of words and came up dripping.
The profound difference that divides the human race is a question of bait -- whether to fish with worms or not.
Really I don't like human nature unless all candied over with art.
The streets of London have their map, but our passions are uncharted. What are you going to meet if you turn this corner?
I am in the mood to dissolve in the sky.
Romantic Love is only an Illusion. A story one makes up in One's Mind about Another Person.
Thinking is my fighting.
We must reconcile ourselves to a season of failures and fragments.
Bir kadın olarak ülkem yok. Bir kadın olarak, bir ülkem olsun istemiyorum. Bir kadın olarak, bütün dünya benim ülkem.
Women have served all these centuries as looking glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size.
I can't imagine anything nicer than to sit out in the moonlight and listen to music--.
The man who is aware of himself is henceforward independent; and he is never bored, and life is only too short, and he is steeped through and through with a profound yet temperate happiness.
I was thinking today of my greatest happiness, a walk along a cliff by the sea, and you at the end of it.
For now she need not think of anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of -- to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to be alone.
All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.
She seemed a compound of the autumn leaves and the winter sunshine .
Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigues, I have had my vision.
One of the signs of passing youth is the birth of a sense of fellowship with other human beings as we take our place among them.
It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.
For women live much more in the past...they attach themselves to places.
Tom's great yellow bronze mask all draped upon an iron framework. An inhibited, nerve-drawn; dropped face -- as if hung on a scaffold of heavy private brooding; and thought.
Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.
And now more than anything I want beautiful prose. I relish it more and more exquisitely.
The older one grows, the more one likes indecency.
There is no room for the impurities of literature in an essay.
And even a tea party means apprehension, breakage.
Money dignifies what is frivolous if unpaid for.
To want and not to have, sent all up her body a hardness, a hollowness, a strain. And then to want and not to have- to want and want- how that wrung the heart, and wrung it again and again!
Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.
I want to write a novel about Silence," he said; "the things people don't say.
How remorseless life is!
As a cloud crosses the sun, silence falls on London; and falls on the mind. Effort ceases. Time flaps on the mast. There we stop; there we stand.
Anyone who's worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, and with extravagant enthusiasm.
The connection between dress and war is not far to seek; your finest clothes are those you wear as soldiers.
I want the concentration and the romance, and the worlds all glued together, fused, glowing: have no time to waste any more on prose.
Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.
Life allowed to waste like a tap left running.
Marvelous are the innocent.
Women have served all these centuries as looking glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of a man at twice its natural size.
I am extremely happy walking on the downs...I like to have space to spread my mind out in.
I can sit alone by an open window for hours if I like, and hear only bird songs, and the rustle of leaves. The trees are pure gold and orange,.
Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.
For nothing matters except life; and, of course, order.
I feel all shadows of the universe multiplied deep inside my skin.
Literature is no one's private ground, literature is common ground; let us trespass freely and fearlessly and find our own way for ourselves.
Each had his own business to think of. Each had his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart; and his friends could only read the title.
Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it .
Effort ceases. Time flaps on the mast. There we stop; there we stand. Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.
Joy's life in the doing (..) I mean it's the writing, not the being read that excites me.
All the months are crude experiments,
out of which the perfect September is made.
It is part of the novelist's convention not to mention soup and salmon and ducklings, as if soup and salmon and ducklings were of no importance.
Chastity may be a fetish invented by certain societies for unknown reasons.
Everything is moving, falling, slipping, vanishing... There is a vast upheaval of matter.
For beyond the difficulty of communicating oneself, there is the supreme difficulty of being oneself.
An hour, once it lodges in the queer element of the human spirit, may be stretched to fifty or a hundred times its clock length.
The most extraordinary thing about writing is that when you've struck the right vein, tiredness goes. It must be an effort, thinking wrong.
Now that he was quite alone, condemned, deserted, as those who are about to die are alone, there was a luxury in it, an isolation full of sublimity; a freedom which the attached can never know.
My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery -- always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?
To depend upon a profession is a less odious form of slavery than to depend upon a father.
She always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.
Dance music ... stirs some barbaric instinct -- lulled asleep in our sober lives -- you forget centuries of civilization in a second, and yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.
I got out this diary, and read as one always does read one's own writing, with a kind of guilty intensity.
The sea was indistinguishable from the sky, except that the sea was slightly creased as if a cloth had wrinkles in it.
The beautiful seems right by force of beauty, and the feeble wrong because of weakness.
For ourselves, who are ordinary men and women, let us return thanks to Nature for her bounty by using every one of the senses she has given us.
Letters are venerable; and the telephone valiant, for the journey is a lonely one, and if bound together by notes and telephones we went in company, perhaps -- who knows? -- we might talk by the way.
"It is equally vain," she thought, "for you to think you can protect me, or for me to think I can worship you. The light of truth beats upon us without shadow, and the light of truth is damnably unbecoming to us both."
As I write, there rises somewhere in my head that queer and very pleasant sense of something which I want to write; my own point of view.
Among the tortures and devastations of life is this then--our friends are not able to finish their stories.
All extremes of feeling are allied with madness.
Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living?
If we didn't live venturously, plucking the wild goat by the beard, and trembling over precipices, we should never be depressed, I've no doubt; but already should be faded, fatalistic and aged.
Fiction is like a spider's web, attached ever so slightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners. Often the attachment is scarcely perceptible.
When I am grown up I shall carry a notebook--a fat book with many pages, methodically lettered. I shall enter my phrases.
Style is a very simple matter; it is all rhythm. Once you get that, you can't use the wrong words.
We are only lightly covered with buttoned cloth; and beneath these pavements are shells, bones and silence.
It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.
It's been a perpetual discovery, my life. A miracle.
There was a star riding through clouds one night, and I said to the star, 'Consume me'.
She had the perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very, dangerous to live even one day.
Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
It is strange how the dead leap out on us at street corners, or in dreams.
It seems as if an age of genius must be succeeded by an age of endeavour; riot and extravagance by cleanliness and hard work.
The history of most women is hidden either by silence, or by flourishes and ornaments that amount to silence.
Lazy and indifferent the heron returns; the sky veils her stars; then bares them.
So coming back from a journey, or after an illness, before habits had spun themselves across the surface, one felt that same unreality, which was so startling; felt something emerge. Life was most vivid then.
One has to secrete a jelly in which to slip quotations down people's throats -- and one always secretes too much jelly.
Once she knows how to read there's only one thing you can teach her to believe in and that is herself.
Where the Mind is biggest, the Heart, the Senses, Magnanimity, Charity, Tolerance, Kindliness, and the rest of them scarcely have room to breathe.
I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realizes an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.
O why do I ever let anyone read what I write! Every time I have to go through a breakfast with a letter of criticism I swear I will write for my own praise or blame in future. It is a misery.
I really don't advise a woman who wants to have things her own way to get married.
What then? Who then?' she said. 'Thirty-six; in a motor car; a woman. Yes, but a million other things as well.
Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.
Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost.
So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.
So fine was the morning except for a streak of wind here and there that the sea and sky looked all one fabric, as if sails were stuck high up in the sky, or the clouds had dropped down into the sea.
First she starved herself of love, which meant also life; then of poetry in deference to what she thought her religion demanded.
Like the pulse of a perfect heart, life struck straight through the streets.
Sleep, that deplorable curtailment of the joy of life.
Let a man get up and say, Behold, this is the truth, and instantly I perceive a sandy cat filching a piece of fish in the background. Look, you have forgotten the cat, I say.
Methinks the human method of expression by sound of tongue is very elementary, and ought to be substituted for some ingenious invention which should be able to give vent to at least six coherent sentences at once.
Youth so apt for pleasure that pleasure, one thought, must exist.
A million candles burnt in him without his being at the trouble of lighting a single one.
Growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others.
A light here required a shadow there.
There can be no two opinions as to what a highbrow is. He is the man or woman of thoroughbred intelligence who rides his mind at a gallop across country in pursuit of an idea.
This I say is the present moment; this is the first day of the summer holidays. This is part of the emerging monster to whom we are attached.
I am not one and simple, but complex and many.
To enjoy freedom ... we have of course to control ourselves. We must not squander our powers, helplessly and ignorantly, squirting half the house in order to water a single rose.
More and more I come to loathe any dominion of one over another; any leadership, any imposition of the will.
She would not say of anyone that they were this or that.
What a labour writing is ... making one sentence do the work of a page; that's what I call hard work.
Why are women... so much more interesting to men than men are to women?
Quite the chilliest and least human known to me. You see brains floating like so many sea-anemones, nor have they shape or colour.
These errand-boys and furtive and fugitive girls who, ignoring their doom, look in at shop windows? But I am aware of our ephemeral passage.
For pleasure has no relish unless we share it.
Language is wine upon the lips.
In illness words seem to possess a mystic quality.
For there is a virtue in truth; it has an almost mystic power. Like radium, it seems to give off forever and ever grains of energy, atoms of light.
Women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time.
A whole lifetime was too short to bring out, the full flavour; to extract every ounce of pleasure, every shade of meaning.
Writing is like sex. First you do it for love, then you do it for your friends, and then you do it for money.
These moments of escape are not to be despised. They come too seldom.
Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall.
And that is the time to read poetry ... when we are almost able to write it.
Arrange whatever pieces come your way.
Her life was a tissue of vanity and deceit.
Because it is a thousand pities never to say what one feels, he thought.
Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm; words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and falls again. I am a poet, yes. Surely I am a great poet.
Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.
I exist only in the soles of my feet and in the tired muscles of my thighs. We have been walking for hours it seems. But where? I cannot remember.
There is a coherence in things, a stability; something... is immune from change and shines out... in the face of the flowing, the fleeting, the spectral, like a ruby.
I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life.
I rise from my worst disasters, I turn, I change.
There were masses of pictures she had not seen; however, Lily Briscoe reflected, perhaps it was better not to see pictures: they only made one hopelessly discontented with one's own work.
Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another.
There is the strange power we have of changing facts by the force of the imagination.
First a warning, musical; then the hour, irrevocable. The leaden circles dissolved in the air.
Moreover, a book is not made of sentences laid end to end, but of sentences built, if an image helps, into arcades or domes.
But what are stories? Toys I twist, bubbles I blow, one ring passing through another. And sometimes I begin to doubt if there are stories.
To teach without zest is a crime.
We agreed that people are now afraid of the English language. He T.S. Eliot said it came of being bookish, but not reading books enough. One should read all styles thoroughly.
You have a touch in letter writing that is beyond me. Something unexpected, like coming round a corner in a rose garden and finding it still daylight.
Let us not take it for granted that life exists more in what is commonly thought big than in what is commonly thought small.
For the philosopher is right who says that nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy.
There is much to support the view that it is clothes that wear us, and not we, them; we may make them take the mould of arm or breast, but they mould our hearts, our brains, our tongues to their liking.
Fiction is like a spider's web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners.
The eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages.
She was like a bird for speed, an arrow for directness.
I spent an hour looking at pots and carpets in the museums the other day, until the desire to describe them became like the desire for the lusts of the flesh.
I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual.
The immense success of our life is, I think, that our treasure is hid away; or rather in such common things that nothing can touch it.
The earth hangs heavy beneath me.
Purely feminine; with that extraordinary gift, that woman's gift, of making a world of her own wherever she happened to be.
Illness is a part of every human being's experience. It enhances our perceptions and reduces self-consciousness. It is the great confessional; things are said, truths are blurted out which health conceals.
Fishing teaches a stern morality; inculcates a remorseless honesty.
For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.
It's my choice, to choose how to live my life.
He thought her beautiful, believed her impeccably wise; dreamed of her, wrote poems to her, which, ignoring the subject, she corrected in red ink.
Somewhere, everywhere, now hidden, now apparent in what ever is written down, is the form of a human being. If we seek to know him, are we idly occupied?
If you do not tell the truth about yourself, you cannot tell it about other people.
For in marriage a little licence, a little independence there must
be between people living together day in day out in the same house; which Richard gave her, and she
In any case life is but a procession of shadows, and God knows why it is that we embrace them so eagerly, and see them depart with such anguish, being shadows.
I use my friends rather as giglamps : There's another field I see: by your light. Over there's a hill. I widen my landscape.
I condemn you. Yet my heart yearns towards you. I would go with you through the fires of death. Yet am happiest alone.
Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another. Nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy bring them together and they tear each other to pieces.
After that, how unbelievable death was! -- that it must end; and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all; how, every instant.
No sooner have you feasted on beauty with your eyes than your mind tells you that beauty is vain and beauty passes.
I feel certain that I'm going mad again, I feel we can't go thru another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices.
Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.
He lay on his chair with his hands clasped above his paunch not reading, or sleeping, but basking like a creature gorged with existence.
As for my next book, I won't write it till it has grown heavy in my mind like a ripe pear; pendant, gravid, asking to be cut or it will fall.
Yes, I deserve a spring -- I owe nobody nothing.
I will achieve in my life -- Heaven grant that it be not long -- some gigantic amalgamation between the two discrepancies so hideously apparent to me. Out of my suffering I will do it. I will knock. I will enter.
Why does Samuel Butler say, 'Wise men never say what they think of women'? Wise men never say anything else apparently.
To whom can I expose the urgency of my own passion?…There is nobody--here among these grey arches, and moaning pigeons, and cheerful games and tradition and emulation, all so skilfully organised to prevent feeling alone.
Our friends -- how distant, how mute, how seldom visited and little known. And I, too, am dim to my friends and unknown; a phantom, sometimes seen, often not. Life is a dream surely.
The only truth which she could discover was the truth of what she herself felt.
When I cannot see words curling like rings of smoke round me I am in darkness--I am nothing.
I detest the masculine point of view. I am bored by his heroism, virtue, and honour. I think the best these men can do is not talk about themselves anymore.
She felt... how life, from being made up of little separate incidents which one lived one by one, became curled and whole like a wave which bore one up with it and threw one down with it, there, with a dash on the beach.
Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
I like the unreality of your mind; the whole thing is very splendid and voluptuous and absurd.
Well, we must wait for the future to show.
Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.
The immense success of our life, is I think, that our treasure is hid away; or rather in such common things that nothing can touch it.
Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind, is written large in his works.
Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things. Still, life had a way of adding day to day.
But I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing.
People ask me why I write. I write to find out what I know.
The art of writing has for backbone some fierce attachment to an idea.
It's not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us; it's the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.
All the months are crude experiments.
I am rooted, but I flow.
It was strange to think that all the great women of fiction were, until Jane Austen's day, not only seen by the other sex, but seen only in relation to the other sex. And how small a part of woman's life is that.
I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you're everything that exists; the reality of everything.
The poet gives us his essence, but prose takes the mold of the body and mind.
For we think back through our mothers if we are women.
We can best help you to prevent war not by repeating your words and following your methods but by finding new words and creating new methods.
I sleep among ravishing illusions and wake to their burden.
I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.
You cannot find peace by avoiding life.
They never saw him drawing pictures of them naked at their antics in his notebook.
Life was that -- humiliation, renunciation.
The mind is the most capricious of insects -- flitting, fluttering.
The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.
Habits gradually change the face of ones life as time changes one's physical face;andamp; one does not know it.
One must learn to be silent just as one must learn to talk.
Fatigue is the safest sleeping draught.
Not as oneself did one find rest ever, in her experience (she accomplished here something dexterous with her needles) but as a wedge of darkness.
He called her a melon, a pineapple, an olive tree, an emerald, and a fox in the snow all in the space of three seconds; he did not know whether he had heard her, tasted her, seen her, or all three together.
Dr. Holmes came again. Large, fresh coloured, handsome, flicking his boots, looking in the glass, he brushed it all aside-headaches, sleeplessness, fears, dreams-nerve symptoms and nothing more, he said.
Distorted realities have always been my cup of tea.
How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn't pull the trigger?
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.
Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us.
Mrs Dalloway is always giving parties to cover the silence.
I will go down with my colours flying.
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?
Women have served all these centuries as looking glasses possessing the power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size.
Sometimes she had it; sometimes not. She never knew why it came or why it went, or if she had it until she came into the room and then she knew instantly by the way some man looked at her.
My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.
But how entirely I live in my imagination; how completely depend upon spurts of thought, coming as I walk, as I sit; things churning up in my mind and so making a perpetual pageant, which is to be my happiness.
Every face, every shop, bedroom window, public-house, and dark square is a picture feverishly turned -- in search of what? It is the same with books. What do we seek through millions of pages?
When the body escaped mutilation, seldom did the heart go to the grave unscarred.
They lack suggestive power. And when a book lacks suggestive power, however hard it hits the surface of the mind it cannot penetrate within.
About here, she thought, dabbling her fingers in the water, a ship had sunk, and she muttered, dreamily half asleep, how we perished, each alone.
The sigh of all the seas breaking in measure round the isles soothed them; the night wrapped them; nothing broke their sleep, until, the birds beginning and the dawn weaving their thin voices in to its whiteness.
You send a boy to school in order to make friends -- the right sort.
If we can imagine the art of fiction come alive and standing in our midst, she would undoubtedly bid us to break her and bullyher, as well as honour and love her, for so her youth is renewed and her sovereignty assured.
Just in case you ever foolishly forget; I'm never not thinking of you.
Like" and "like" and "like" -- but what is the thing that lies beneath the semblance of the thing?
How then did it work out, all this? How did one judge people, think of them? How did one add up this and that and conclude that it is liking one felt, or disliking?
He was thinking of himself and the impression he was making, as she could tell by the sound of his voice, and his emphasis and his uneasiness.
Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.
I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
Soup is cuisines kindest course.
To read a novel is a difficult and complex art. You must be capable not only of great fineness of perception, but of great boldness of imagination.
Yet, it is true, poetry is delicious; the best prose is that which is most full of poetry.
Life would split apart without letters.
Oh, to awake from dreaming!
Travelers are much at the mercy of phrases ... vast generalizations formulate in their exposed brains.
Whatever may be their use in civilized societies, mirrors are essential to all violent and heroic action.
Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more.
To whom can I expose the urgency of my own passion?
I need silence, and to be alone and to go out, and to save one hour to consider what has happened to my world, what death has done to my world.
Does Nature supplement what man advanced? Or does she complete what he began?
This soul, or life within us, by no means agrees with the life outside us. If one has the courage to ask her what she thinks, she is always saying the very opposite to what other people say.
He was to be the son of her old age; the limb of her infirmity; the oak tree on which she leant her degradation.
Madness is terrific I can assure you, and not to be sniffed at; and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about. It shoots out of one everything shaped, final, not in mere driblets, as sanity does.
You have no one who has any sort of consideration for you. You have had patience and endurance till I am sick of the virtues, and what have they done for you? Half-killed you.
To write a novel in the heart of London is next to an impossibility. I feel as if I were nailing a flag to the top of a mast in a raging gale.
Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.
She hated her: she loved her. It was enemies one wanted, not friends ..
Great bodies of people are never responsible for what they do.
I don't believe that you can possibly separate expression from thought in an imaginative work. The better a thing is expressed, the more completely it is thought.
I need not flatter any man; he has nothing to give me.
One cannot think well, love well and sleep well if one has not dined well.
I'm terrified of passive acquiescence. I live in intensity.
If you drink the good wine of the noble countess, you have to entertain her less desirable friends.
Vain trifles as they seem, clothes have, they say, more important offices than to merely keep us warm. They change our view of the world and the world's view of us.
Thus Mr. Lawrence, Mr. Douglas and Mr. Joyce partly spoil their books for women readers by their display of self-conscious virility; and Mr. Hemingway, but much less violently, follows suit.
For it was not knowledge but unity that she desired, not inscriptions on tablets, nothing that could be written in any language known to men, but intimacy itself, which is knowledge.
How far we are going to read a poet when we can read about a poet is a problem to lay before biographers.
Am I a weed, carried this way, that way, on a tide that comes twice a day without a meaning?
Those comfortably padded lunatic asylums which are known, euphemistically, as the stately homes of England.
Alone, condemned, deserted, as those who are about to die are alone, there was a luxury in it, an isolation full of sublimity; a freedom which the attached can never know.
The truer the facts the better the fiction.
Even if fall she must, it was to lie on the earth and moulder sweetly into the roots of violets.
I am reading Henry James...and feel myself as one entombed in a block of smooth amber.
Alone, I often fall down into nothingness. I must push my foot stealthily lest I should fall off the edge of the world into nothingness. I have to bang my head against some hard door to call myself back to the body.
The lake of my mind, unbroken by oars, heaves placidly and soon sinks into an oily somnolence.' That will be useful.
I ride rough waters, and shall sink with no one to save me.
Conversation, fastidious goddess, loves blood better than brick, and feasts most subtly on the human will.
And all the lives we ever lived and all the lives to be are full of trees and changing leaves.
When the wolf walks by you, you will remember.
For if it is rash to walk into a lion's den unarmed, rash to navigate the Atlantic in a rowing boat, rash to stand on one foot on top of St. Paul's, it is still more rash to go home alone with a poet.
When the shriveled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning, it satisfies the senses amazingly.
Like most uneducated Englishwomen, I like reading -- I like reading books in the bulk.
There is much to support the view that it is clothes that wear us, and not we, them.
The proper stuff of fiction' does not exist; everything is the proper stuff of fiction, every feeling, every thought; every quality of brain and spirit is drawn upon; no perception comes amiss.
I'm one of those who are hampered by the psychological hindrance of owning capital.
Of course, literature is the only spiritual and humane career. Even painting tends to dumness, and music turns people erotic, whereas the more you write the nicer you become.
The hatchet must fall on the block; the oak must be cleft to the centre. The weight of the world is on my shoulders. Here is the pen and the paper; on the letters in the wire basket I sign my name, I, I, and again I.
I do not believe that gifts, whether of mind or character, can be weighed like sugar and butter.
What she loved: life, London, this moment of june.
I always had the deepest affection for people who carried sublime tears in their silences.
Incessant company is as bad as solitary confinement.
My mind turned by anxiety, or other cause, from its scrutiny of blank paper, is like a lost child -- wandering the house, sitting on the bottom step to cry.
My mind works in idleness. To do nothing is often my most profitable way.
I enjoy the spring more than the autumn now. One does, I think, as one gets older.
We are nauseated by the sight of trivial personalities decomposing in the eternity of print.
A perfect treat must include a trip to a second-hand bookshop.
I have had my vision.
On the outskirts of every agony sits some observant fellow who points.
What a vast fertility of pleasure books hold for me! ... I think I could happily live here and read forever.
Sir, I would trust you with my heart. Moreover, we have left our bodies in the banqueting hall. Those on the turf are the shadows of our souls.
I feel my brains, like a pear, to see if it's ripe; it will be exquisite by September.
The public and the private worlds are inseparably connected the tyrannies and servilities of the one are the tyrannies and servilities of the other.
I have lost friends, some by death...others by sheer inability to cross the street.
I will not be "famous," "great." I will go on adventuring, changing, opening my mind and my eyes, refusing to be stamped and stereotyped. The thing is to free one's self: to let it find its dimensions, not be impeded.
There was an emptiness about the heart of life; an attic room. Women must put off their rich apparel. At midday they must disrobe.
Chastity ... has, even now, a religious importance in a woman's life, and has so wrapped itself round with nerves and instincts that to cut it free and bring it to the light of day demands courage of the rarest.
In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.
Nothing induces me to read a novel except when I have to make money by writing about it. I detest them.
It gave to everything its exact measure of colour; to the sandhills their innumerable glitter, to the wild grasses their glancing green.
It was jealousy that was at the bottom of it -- jealousy which survives every other passion of mankind.
She had been trapped into saying something she did not mean.
She did in her own heart infinitely prefer boobies to clever men who wrote dissertations.