It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality.
Words belong to each other.
We must reconcile ourselves to a season of failures and fragments.
Thinking is my fighting.
All extremes of feeling are allied to madness.
For nothing was simply one thing.
Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.
No passion is stronger in the breast of a man than the desire to make others believe as he believes. Nothing so cuts at the root of his happiness and fills him with rage as the sense that another rates low what he prizes high.
It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.
All extremes are dangerous.
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.
I will dream today; for I must unscrew my head somehow.
Soup is cuisines kindest course
Really I don't like human nature unless all candied over with art.
Once conform, once do what other people do because they do it, and a lethargy steals over all the finer nerves and faculties of the soul. She becomes all outer show and inward emptiness; dull, callous, and indifferent.
And yet, the only exciting life is the imaginary one.
I like people to be unhappy because I like them to have souls.
One can only believe entirely, perhaps, in what one cannot see.
Yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room.
One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with one's words.
Arrange whatever pieces come your way.
When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet. . . indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
How can I express the darkness?
As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.
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.
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