There’ll be oceans of talk and emotions without end.
Nothing, I know, had any chance against death.
Disastrous would have been the result if a fire or a death had suddenly demanded something heroic of human nature, but tragedies come in the hungry hours.
Life without illusion is a ghostly affair.
The world is crammed with delightful things.
Words belong to each other.
I press to my centre, and find there is something there.
We live in constant danger of coming apart. The mystery of why we do not always come apart is the animating tension of all art.
There was no treachery too base for the world to commit.
Thus Mr. Lawrence, Mr. Douglas and Mr. Joyce partly spoil their books for women readers by their display of self-conscious virility; and Mr. Hemingway, but much less violently, follows suit.
To be nothing – is that not, after all, the most satisfactory fact in the whole world?
People only become writers if they can’t find the one book they’ve always wanted to read.
Incessant company is as bad as solitary confinement.
The extraordinary woman depends on the ordinary woman.
Nothing is stronger than the position of the dead among the living.
I see through most people; I’m hardly ever wrong. I see at once what they’ve got in them.
I am volatile for one, rigid for another, angular as an icicle in silver, or voluptuous as a candle flame in gold.
If this were the time or the place to uphold a paradox, I am half inclined to state that Norfolk is one of the most beautiful of counties.
On or about December 1910, human character changed.
Let us record the atoms as they fall upon the mind in the order in which they fall.