I’ve felt so sad for years about you. My love for you has always had a sad face.
The absence of the loved person is so absolute.
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.
She had loved him, she thought now, because, just at that time, she had had to have something else, someone else, to love, a private place for wounded love to go. But that had been, as she had then suspected and now knew, a device, a dream.
It was not a very pleasant face: heavy, perceptibly Jewish, and dour, with just a hint of insolence.
I tasted injustice and the special horror of seeing its perpetrators flourish. How frequent and how bitter is this aspect of human wretchedness. The wicked prosper in front of our eyes and go on and on and on prospering. What a blessing it must have been once to be able to believe in hell. A great and deep human consolation was lost to us when that ancient and respectable belief faded from our minds.
She thought, I am becoming a recluse. Yes, that’s it, that is the way.
Yes, and I’m ready to wade through blood for him, but there is no blood, only a false sickly slime – I can’t live in fogs and falsehoods, I must live in the open, I must find my way out, I must find someone else, and I have found someone else.
Rosina had the fierce charm of the rather nasty girl in the fairy-tale who fails to get the prince, but is more interesting than the girl who does, and has better lines too.
As she handed it over Dr Klein gave me a keen look. Her narrow dark eyes, which seemed in the strange light to be shot with red, had the slightly Oriental appearance peculiar to certain Jewish women.
I have felt more passion with less comfort elsewhere: the mysterious deep half-blind preferences of human beings for each other, the quick probing tentacles that seek in the dark, why one inexplicably and yet certainly loves A and is indifferent to B.
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.
All that had seemed impossible, too late, a dream, had suddenly become possible, even natural and inevitable.
It was all very simple. I just loved her. I couldn’t stop. I haven’t stopped. Oh God.
The painter copies this bed from one point of view. He is thus at three removes from reality. He does not understand the bed, he does not measure it, he could not make it.
These words had impressed Clement deeply, inscribed upon his heart.
Literature must always represent a battle between real people and images’.
Somehow I’ve always wanted the ones that didn’t want me. I’m the absolute queen bee of unrequited love.
Art both expresses and gratifies the lowest part of the soul, and feeds and enlivens base emotions which ought to be left to wither.
Perhaps he has realised now that he’s trapped here and has to suffer with us and become mortal and die.