For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.
You cannot find peace by avoiding life.
Up here my eyes are green leaves, unseeing.
It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.
A million candles burnt in him without his being at the trouble of lighting a single one.
Intellectual freedom depends upon material things.
I prefer men to cauliflowers.
But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.
The future is dark, which is the best thing the future can be, I think.
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.
Moreover, a book is not made of sentences laid end to end, but of sentences built, if an image helps, into arcades or domes.
For if Chloe likes Olivia and Mary Carmichael knows how to express it she will light a torch in that vast chamber where nobody has yet been.
I will dream today; for I must unscrew my head somehow.
The word-coining genius, as if thought plunged into a sea of words and came up dripping.
A perfect treat must include a trip to a second-hand bookshop.
In illness words seem to possess a mystic quality.
Therefore I would ask you to write all kinds of books, hesitating at no subject however trivial or however vast. By hook or by crook, I hope that you will possess yourselves of money enough to travel and to idle, to contemplate the future or the past of the world, to dream over books and loiter at street corners and let the line of thought dip deep into the stream.
I feel a thousand capacities spring up in me. I am arch, gay, languid, melancholy by turns. I am rooted, but I flow.
So he was deserted. The whole world was clamouring: Kill yourself, kill yourself, for our sakes. But why should he kill himself for their sakes? Food was pleasant; the sun hot; and this killing oneself, how does one set about it, with a table knife, uglily, with floods of blood, – by sucking a gaspipe? He was too weak; he could scarcely raise his hand. Besides, 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.
Yes, I deserve a spring–I owe nobody nothing.