Or else she stayed in and nursed a mood with which she was becoming too familiar for her own comfort and peace of mind. It was not despair; but it seemed to her as if life were passing by, leaving its promise broken and unfulfilled.
Perhaps it is better to wake up after all, even to suffer, rather than to remain a dupe to illusions all one’s life.
I wonder if anyone else has an ear so tuned and sharpened as I have, to detect the music, not of the spheres, but of earth, subtleties of major and minor chord that the wind strikes upon the tree branches. Have you ever heard the earth breathe?
The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.
The artist must possess the courageous soul that dares and defies.
The voice of the sea speaks to the soul.
She wanted something to happen – something, anything: she did not know what.
The voice of the sea is seductive, never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander in abysses of solitude.
In the procession I should feel the crushing feet, the clashing discords, the ruthless hands and stifling breath. I could not hear the rhythm of the march.
The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.
A certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her, – the light which, showing the way, forbids it.
I would give up the unessential; I would give up my money, I would give up my life for my children; but I wouldnt give myself. I can’t make it more clear; it’s only something I am beginning to comprehend, which is revealing itself to me.
Have you ever heard the earth breath?
The delicous breath of rain was in the air.
He could see plainly that she was not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world.
There are some people who leave impressions not so lasting as the imprint of an oar upon the water.
It was not despair, but it seemed to her as if life were passing by, leaving its promises broken and unfulfilled. Yet there were other days when she listened, was led on and deceived by fresh promises which her youth had held out to her.
But the beginning of things, of a world especially, is necessarily vague, tangled, chaotic, and exceedingly disturbing. How few of us ever emerge from such beginning! How many souls perish in its tumult!
A bird with a broken wing was beating the air above, reeling, fluttering, circling disabled, down, down to the water.
Well, for instance, when I left her today, she put her arms around me and felt my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, she said.