Children never forget injustice. They forgive heaps of things grown-up people mind; but that sin is the unpardonable sin.
But something is always impelling one to hum vibrating, like the hawk moth, at the mouth of the cavern of mystery.
Choked by the wind their spirits rose with a rush, for on the skirts of all the grey tumult was a misty spot of gold. Instantly the world dropped into shape; they were no longer atoms flying in the void, but people riding a triumphant ship on the back of the sea. Wind and space were banished; the world floated like an apple in a tub, and the mind of man, which had been unmoored also, once more attached itself to the old beliefs.
I use my friends rather as giglamps : There’s another field I see: by your light. Over there’s a hill. I widen my landscape.
He was to be the son of her old age; the limb of her infirmity; the oak tree on which she leant her degradation.
Desejei dilatar a noite para a encher de sonhos.
If this is love,” said Orlando to herself, looking at the Archduke on the other side of the fender, and now from the woman’s point of view, “there is something highly ridiculous about it.
What then? Who then?′ she said. ‘Thirty-six; in a motor car; a woman. Yes, but a million other things as well.
Because it is a thousand pities never to say what one feels, he thought...
One must strain off what was personal and accidental in all these impressions and so reach the pure fluid, the essential oil of truth.
The entire gamut of the view’s changes should have been known to her; its winter aspect, spring, summer and autumn; how storms came up from the sea; how the moors shuddered and brightened as the clouds went over.
What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace any thing, solemn, slight or beautiful that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk, or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through.
There is no mark on the wall to measure the precise height of women. There are no yard measures neatly divided into the fractions of an inch that one can lay against the qualities of a good mother or the devotion of a daughter or fidelity of a sister or the capacity of a housekeeper.
The earth hangs heavy beneath me.
One of these days d’you think you’ll be able to see things at the end of the telephone?” Peggy said, getting up.
The fact about contemporaries is that they’re doing the same thing on another railway line: one resents their distracting one, flashing past, the wrong way- something like that: from timidity, partly, one keeps one’s eyes on one’s own road.
For beyond the difficulty of communicating oneself, there is the supreme difficulty of being oneself. This soul, or life within us, by no means agrees with the life outside us.
Is it permissible even for a dying hero to think before he dies ow men will think of him hereafter. His fame lasts perhaps two thousand years. And what are two thousand years?
If truth is not to be found on the shelves of the British Museum, where, I asked myself, picking up a notebook and a pencil, is truth?
Es curioso advertir que, en toda crisis, siempre aparece una frase incongruente que insiste en acudir en nuestro auxilio.