There is something absolute in us which despises qualification.
She felt more deeply, more passionately, every year. It increased, he said. Alas, perhaps, but one should be glad of it- it went on increasing in his experience.
La bellezza del mondo ha due tagli, uno di gioia, l’altro d’angoscia, e taglia in due il cuore.
To love makes one solitary, she thought. She could tell nobody, not even Septimus now...
So she sat down to morning tea, like any other old lady with a high nose, thin cheeks, a ring on her finger and the usual trappings of rather shabby but gallant old age...
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.