Quinientos a la semana y una puerta con pestillo.
Sometimes it seems to me that I shall never write out all the books I have in my head, because of the strain. The devilish thing about writing is that it calls upon every nerve to hold itself taut. This is exactly what I cannot do –.
So the being grows rings; identity becomes robust. What was fiery and furtive like a fling of grain cast into the air and blown hither and thither by wild gusts of life from every quarter is now methodical and orderly and flung with a purpose – so it seems.
So that was the end of that marriage.
I refuse to allow you, Beadle though you are, to turn me off the grass.
They know what to say if spoken to. They laugh really; they get angry really; while I have to look first and then do what other people do when they have done it.
But who, save the nerve-worn and sleepless, or thinkers standing with hands to the eyes on some crag above the multitude, see things thus in skeleton outline, bare of flesh?
The body after long illness is languid, passive, receptive of sweetness, but too weak to contain it.
These old houses are only brick and wood, soaked in human sweat, grained with human dirt.
Oh, yes, dear reader: the essay is alive. There is no reason to despair.
Cats do not go to heaven. Women cannot write the plays of Shakespeare.
She came from the most worthless of classes – the rich, with a smattering of culture.
This susceptibility to impressions had been his undoing, no doubt. Still at his age he had, like a boy or a girl even, these alternations of mood; good days, bad days, for no reason whatever, happiness from a pretty face, downright misery at the sight of a frump.
Books, she thought, grew of themselves.
When she looked in the glass and saw her hair grey, her cheek sunk, at fifty, she thought, possibly she might have managed things better – her.
Why, after all, did she do these things? Why seek pinnacles and stand drenched in fire? Might it consume her anyhow! Burn her to cinders!
If Shakespeare had never existed, he asked, would the world have differed much from what it is today?
Looked at again and again half consciously by a mind thinking of something else, any object mixes itself so profoundly with the stuff of thought that it loses its actual form and recomposes itself a little differently in an ideal shape which haunts the brain when we least expect it.
Instead of being a single, downright, bluff piece of work of which no man need feel ashamed, our commonest deeds are set about with a fluttering and flickering of wings, a rising and falling of lights.
It is so vast an alleviation to be able to point for another to look at. And then not to talk. To follow the dark paths of the mind and enter the past, to visit books, to brush aside their branches and break off some fruit.