How lovely goodness is in those who, stepping lightly, go smiling through the world.
Sleep, that deplorable curtailment of the joy of life.
Second hand books are wild books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the library lack.
Above all you must illumine your own soul with its profundities and its shallows, and its vanities and its generosities, and say what your beauty means to you or your plainness, and what is your relation to the ever-changing and turning world.
And all the lives we ever lived and all the lives to be are full of trees and changing leaves.
I really don't advise a woman who wants to have things her own way to get married
To make ideas effective, we must be able to fire them off. We must put them into action.
I'm terrified of passive acquiescence. I live in intensity.
We are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.
My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.
I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot.
I like to have space to spread my mind out in.
A perfect treat must include a trip to a second-hand bookshop.
Without self awareness we are as babies in the cradles.
If people are highly successful in their professions they lose their sense. Sight goes. They have no time to look at pictures. Sound goes. They have no time to listen to music. Speech goes. They have no time for conversation. Humanity goes. Money making becomes so important that they must work by night as well as by day. Health goes. And so competitive do they become that they will not share their work with others though they have more themselves. What then remains of a human being who has lost sight, sound, and sense of proportion? Only a cripple in a cave.
It is from the middle class that writers spring, because, it is in the middle class only that the practice of writing is as natural and habitual as hoeing a field or building a house.
I am overwhelmed with things I ought to have written about and never found the proper words.
Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.
She had known happiness, exquisite happiness, intense happiness, and it silvered the rough waves a little more brightly, as daylight faded, and the blue went out of the sea and it rolled in waves of pure lemon which curved and swelled and broke upon the beach and the ecstasy burst in her eyes and waves of pure delight raced over the floor of her mind and she felt, It is enough! It is enough!
The depths of the sea are only water after all.
Tragedies come in the hungry hours.
to teach without zest is a crime.
Thoughts without words… Can that be?
It was the intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.
For now she need not think of anybody. She coud 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... and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures.
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